Sparks
by secretsinrain
Summary: When she met him, she had been ready to accept death. With a few words, he managed to rekindle the flames within her...only to extinguish them once again later on. Now she must choose which path to take.
1. Chapter 1: Those Who Prey Upon the Weak

**A/N:** **Shalott by Emilie Autumn and well as the original 'The Lady of Shalott' poem** are what inspired a lot of this character's backstory, past, and personality. They are worth checking out if you have the time. :)

And without further ado...

_And the wind, I know, it's cold  
>But there's willow trees<br>And little breezes, waves, and walls, and flowers  
>And there's moonlight every single night<br>As I'm looked in these towers  
>So I'll meet my death<em>

_But with my last breath, I'll sing to him I love..._

-Shalott, Emilie Autumn

She realized, belatedly, that it was rage that had brought her here. Rage seemed to be her driving force behind everything these days; red-hot anger as bright as her hair, as thick, and as long. This world was so full of broken dreams, backstabbers, and yet so devoid of love. The only thing she could do would be to deliver it justice. Justice for all it had done to her.

Would he remember her? She wondered, looking up at the towering stone walls, ancient and engraved. The words that blazed upon the plaque, _Palace of Kings_. As though it could possibly hold anything else, looking like that, and if it did- well, it wouldn't be a palace, would it?

The Breton turned up her nose, ignoring the stares of the soldiers as she passed. She knew she was beautiful. It was her curse in this world, to never be able to travel anywhere un-noticed. To never be taken seriously. To be auctioned off as a prize to the highest bidder.

She ignored them; fuck them all. She was here for one man, and one only: the rightful High King, Ulfric Stormcloak, the man who would finally give her a way to quench her rage and desire to mete out justice, once and for all.

Without further ceremony, she pushed open the doors.

How she had met him had been rather...un-orthodox. Ironic, really, that all the open doors in her life were the ones she found escaping from the ones that were closing. She had finally escaped that vile place, that prison, that tower that those users that posed as family had trapped her in. She had finally escaped and made it across the border, but directly into a camp of soldiers that imprisoned her and many others, hauling her unceremoniously by the hair and beating her into submission, stealing her belongings and clothes, and forcing her into the cold prisoner's garb that exposed her body to the frigid, unforgiving wind of Skyrim.

_So I am to die here,_ she thought, as they rode into the Imperial town of Helgen, the walls crawling with fleas of soldiers, and frogs masquerading as knights_._ The town full of people loyal to this Empire she'd been hearing so much about, this Empire that had sentenced her to death for nothing other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. She had been forced into this cart with other prisoners that talked too much, and forced upon her their names when she didn't desire them. All in all, the ride and capture had been a more unpleasant, and more regrettable experience than what awaited her. She was to die here.

And that suited her just fine.

What didn't suit her, however, was the man to her right- Ulfric Stormcloak, the blonde, talkative Nord had been all too happy to inform her-. He kept staring at her, at her hair. Finally, she snarled at him. "We are to die and all you can do is stare at me? All you men are exactly the same. At least face your death like a warrior, eyes forward and unafraid."

"How dare you speak to him like that," The blonde Nord had snarled, "He is the true High King!"

"I don't give two septims whether he's the High King of Skyrim or a horse's ass," She said bluntly, far past formality by now. "We are to die and I will say whatever I want. No longer will I have my voice silenced. I'll die saying whatever I want."

She could have sworn she heard the man to her right chuckle, but she didn't care enough to look back at him. Despite her bold words, her outburst had called a blush upon her cheeks.

So the Empire got them out of the carts, and called their names, and started the executions. She couldn't help but laugh. She supposed it was morbid and dramatic, but once they called her name, she was happy to sit on the chopping block and die, finally. She had come to this land seeking freedom, hadn't she? And what was more freer than death?

But that too, was taken from her in the form of something she didn't know, nor understand. All she knew is that before the blessed axe was to fall upon her neck, instead, a dragon fell upon the tower. The dragon caused the headsman to fall over, and then everything was blurry. She heard the blonde Nord from before shouting to her, but she was too busy still awaiting her death- either by the axe or by dragon, she cared not- she stayed there on the ground and waited for the end that she knew would come.

"Drag her," Said a deep, no-nonsense voice. "We don't have time to wait. Drag her, let's move!"

Then she was dragged, her prisoner's clothes covered with dirt and gravel, and dragged into the cursed safety of a dimly lit tower, where she firmly believed she had no idea what was going on.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" The blonde Nord asked, kneeling in front of her, his expression angry. Ralof, she remembered. His name was Ralof. "Don't you see what's going on out there? The gods gave you a chance to escape and you laid there like you were already a corpse!"

"Ralof," The same no-nonsense voice from before said, "Enough. Let me see her."

Then _he_ knelt before her, and she saw that the deep voice belonged to the one who had been staring at her before. He took her wrists gently and cut the binds, before looking into her face. "A Breton," He observed. "How interesting. What's your name?"

She didn't answer, just flexed her hands, thankful to get some feeling in them.

"It's not every day someone calls me a horse's ass," He says, "I don't know why you're here, and I don't particularly care. But if you don't live to see the end of this day, and seek me out after all this is over, I will be very, very disappointed."

She looked at him, and her deep forest green eyes looked into his. His eyes were deep as well, but in a light blue, the color of water struck by sunlight. Suddenly, she felt a strange fire burning within her, as if his very presence was arousing within her something she thought she had lost- the will to live. "And why should I care if I disappoint you?"

"That is a very good question. Why do you care?" He stands up, and turns to Ralof. "Ralof. You and the Breton get out of here, and meet me in Windhelm."

"But Jarl Ulfric," The Nord protested, "What will you do?"

"Don't worry about me," He instructed, "Go!"

Inexplicably, she found herself doing what he said. That day she escaped with Ralof, who seemed to like her a lot better by the end of it.

"You're not bad, you know. A good fighter, as firey as your magic."

"You talk too much," She says, "But I suppose you're not bad either."

He grinned sheepishly. "If we are to go to Windhelm, it would be a good idea to head to Riverwood."

"Why." She asked, more a statement than a question. She was incredibly annoyed with these Nords, always with their plans and titles.

"My sister, Gerder, lives there. She can help us out, give us some supplies, get us on our way to Windhelm."

"And what makes you think I'm going with you?" She asserts, starting on the path down the road.

"But-" He hurries after her. "But...aren't you?"

"Your King seemed to assume this, but I'm under no obligation to follow his orders."

"You're not. But we could really use someone like you."

"And 'we' is?"

"The Stormcloaks! True sons and daughters of Skyrim!"

"Oh, you Nords and your bloody civil war." Her left nostril turns up in annoyance.

"You don't have to be a Nord to fight for Skyrim," Ralof presses. "And the Aldmiri Dominion won't stop with Skyrim, you watch. They will try and spread through all of Tamriel."

"I don't care," She says, burning a wolf alive that was stupid enough to try and attack them.

"Not even after the Empire tried to kill you?"

She stops a minute. "The Empire. What does this have to do with..."

"The Stormcloaks are fighting against the Empire," Ralof explained slowly. "Did you really jump the border without knowing what was going on here?"

"I was in a bit of a hurry," She said, irritatedly. "So the Stormcloaks are fighting against the Empire."

"Yes! The Empire has banned the worship of our sacred hero-god, Talos-"

"I don't care why." She said, and started walking again. "If I get to destroy those people, then I'll do it. I don't appreciate being taken advantage of."

"Taken advantage of?"

"I wanted to die and they took advantage of that."

Ralof has an expression of intense confusion, but she couldn't care less about that. Because he talks too much, however, and because he is needlessly annoying, he presses on. "I don't understand- took advantage?"

"If someone wants to die, and you promise to grant them that, do you expect that someone to struggle? No, and I did not, and I should have. I did not come into this land to seek death, I came to seek the life I could not lead elsewhere. As such..." Another wolf falls to her hand. "...As such, they will pay. I will serve your Stormcloaks, not because I believe in your ideals of Justice or your Talos or whatever it is...but because above all, I despise those that prey upon the weak."

Ralof is finally, blessedly quiet for a while.

And so it went. She of course, against her will, was dragged into doing one ill-fated quest or other, because, she supposed, no one in Skyrim could get things done on their own. She ended up retrieving some golden claw or other, some dragon stone or what have you- and actually coming face to face with a dragon again. This time, however, the fury in her bones at the sight helped her strike the horrid thing down without fear, and she muttered to its dying body,

"I will decide the time and place of my own death, and from here on out, I swear that I will be the one to choose my own life."

The words were spoken softly, but with venom and anger, and when she saw the glow from the dragon's skin, she assumed it was just something that happened when dragons died. But when she felt the warm wind and rush of air, and the sensation of power flowing through her- an ancient knowledge and warmth, and a brilliant joining, like the blessed union of lovers- she threw back her head and gasped, feeling her skin glow with power. And then, deep in her heart, she understood the meaning of that word she had happened upon in the barrow. _Force._

"Dragonborn," They named her, but she couldn't care less what they called her, or what they wanted to label her. She had power, now. And power was freedom, and she would use it in whatever way she saw fit.

Upon completing her training with the Graybeards, upon understanding what she truly was, where she came from, and what she was meant to do, she knew exactly what she would do with this power of hers.

_Force, Unrelenting Force._

To destroy those that would prey upon the weak.

They were arguing about something. It was not, as she would have assumed, why the stout one was wearing a dead bear on his head. Funny, she thought, because that's what she would have wanted to know.

No. They were arguing about Whiterun.

"Balgruuf is a good man. He'll come around."

"Tullius is already pressuring him. I-"

She didn't give a rat's ass about Whiterun. What she really wanted to know was,

"Why are you wearing a dead bear on your face?"

The stout one turned around sharply, his face filled with anger. "And who are you, woman, to barge into the Jarl's palace unbidden?"

"Define unbidden. I'm fairly sure Ulfric, or whatever, is expecting me."

"You rude-"

"Galmar...easy. She is correct, I have been expecting her." Ulfric smirked at her, still lounging on his throne, couth as ever. "It seems you didn't want to disappoint me after all, woman."

"You probably don't have half the sense you were born with, man," She fires back, "Is it not the essential function of all creatures to want to live?"

"Not you, and not that day."

"I changed my mind."

Ulfric's smirk widens. "And for that I am grateful. You never did give me your name."

"No, I didn't."

There was a pause.

The dead-bear-wearing man cannot stand it. "Address the Jarl with proper respect! Tell him your name!"

"My name is my own, and my own business, Nord," She said, turning her eyes to the rather annoyingly loud man.

"You are right," Ulfric said, "But what shall we call you?"

"That's for you to decide."

"I know what I'd like to call you," Galmar muttered angrily under his breath.

"Firemane," He said, "It suits you."

"I'll need a proper first name."

"I can't be the one doing all the work, now." Ulfric was clearly enjoying the exchange, and perhaps, so was she, but she was much more discreet about it.

"I got here, didn't I?"

"And so did I. Without Ralof's help."

Point to him. "Fine. You win this round, but don't get used to it."

"No? Do you believe winning is not something I achieve often?"

"It's not something you'll achieve often with me."

"Very well. Well, since I've won this round, I believe my terms must be met. You will choose your own first name."

She thought for a moment, then smiled, walking a little closer. "Gaella," She said, "Is it Nordic enough?"

"I would not have come up with it myself. But is a strange name, but beautiful in an exotic way. It suits you."

"Ugh, don't flirt with me."

Jarl Ulfric had a good laugh at that. "Galmar, do you hear this girl? Such honesty..."

"Any other Jarl would have thrown her in jail for disrespect by now," Galmar growls.

"And there is no other Jarl like me, or else I would not have been leading the rebellion. I am quite sure she's aware of her words as she speaks them."

"You got that right," She scoffs, "Balgruuf doesn't like me much."

"...Is that so? Tell me, what did you say to him?"

"That unless he could magically become two people, he wouldn't be able to stand on both sides of the fence forever. Soon, he is going to fall and explode, and all that hot air will come rushing out."

Galmar grinned. "Maybe I'll come to like you after all, girl,"

"I wish I could say the same," She says, "But you are still wearing a dead bear on your face, and it's hard for me to get past that."

"Get used to it girl, this is the outfit of a high-ranking Stormcloak officer."

"I assumed as much," She said, "And about that..."

"What did I tell you, Galmar? She's come to enlist. See to it that she does."

"Not so fast," Galmar says, eyeing her up and down. "She's a mage."

"And?"

"And I don't trust mages on principle. You'll have to prove yourself to me."

"I'm not sleeping with you."

There is an awed, awkward silence. Despite himself, Ulfric covers his mouth and bursts into laughter, though he had tried his hardest not to. "Galmar, you ought to see your face."

Indeed, Galmar's face was completely stricken with disbelief and revulsion.

"I don't know how it works in Skyrim," She says, feeling slightly embarrassed for the first time, "But I don't work that way. Where I come from, such propositions are not so uncommon."  
>"No," Galmar finally growls, "We <em>prove <em>our might by defeating foes here. Whether you are female or male, beautiful or ugly- these things matter not for the Nords. All that matters is how fiercely you can fight."

"Good. That's something I've never doubted my ability in," She says, grinning, "Just tell me what to do. I'll get it done and be back before dinner."

Galmar grinned back. "Now that's what I like to hear," He said. "Here. Take this map." He pulls a map out of his pocket, and circles an area located far to the north. "Kill me an ice wraith."

"Just one?"

"Kill more if you like, but at least one."

"Fine," She says, and turns to go.

"Wait!"

She looks over her shoulder. "What, bear-man?"

"Galmar," He says grumpily.

"Whatever."

"Take these." He tosses her some potions, and she catches them. "..Poison?"

"Just in case," He asserts. "You carry a blade, right?"

"Besides your tongue?" Ulfric adds.

"Of course," She says, and then is gone, not looking back this time.

Galmar shakes his head, sighing, and turns back to Ulfric, who is still chucking to himself.

"Galmar, have you ever met such a girl?"

"No, and I believe it's a good thing."

"My friend, as rude as she is, I cannot help but admire such a rare quality of honesty. Never will I have to wonder what she thinks of what I ask her to do."

"Surely there is a point in which it must stop," Galmar attests, "She is insulting."

"Not to us, she has not been."

"Ulfric, you can't be serious."

"Name one insult she threw."

"She said you didn't have half the sense you were born with."

"And that is true," Ulfric said, "I have more now."

"You know that's not what she meant."

"Perhaps not, but it is not an insult, not in my book. Not when it is so easily refuted. Any warrior with that fire might just give us the edge we need to win this war."

Galmar looked up at his King then, into his face. He looked as though years of his life had been erased- and he was doing something incredibly rare, something Galmar hadn't seen him do in years.

"You're smiling," He says with wonder.

"I know," He said, "I have been for a while. I knew that she was special the minute I saw her in Helgen."

"_That_ is the woman you met in Helgen, looking defeated and ready to welcome death?"

"Yes," He said, "But all she needed to reignite was a little spark, which I was more than happy to give."

Galmar shook his head, looking back to the door. "A miracle."

"No," Ulfric said, "A blessing. The dragonborn."


	2. Chapter 2: Those Who Bear Burdens

_But, oh, what beautiful things I'll wear  
>What beautiful dresses and hair<br>I'm lucky to share his bed  
>Especially since I'll soon be dead...~<em>

_And when I'm beheaded, at least I was wedded..._

"Marry Me", Emilie Autumn

Without a doubt, she fought with the strength and voracity of a wildfire. Galmar sometimes found himself looking over to her in awe when the enemies around him had already fallen, this woman who had come from literally nowhere, disowning even her own name for the sake of their cause. This woman who seemed to call down inspiration and righteous anger as flame, striking down those who would dare to cross her. Oftentimes he would find her just sitting in the middle of a circle of Imperial bodies, long after the battle was over, with a strange expression on her face, as though she was trying to absorb what she had done.

It was about then Galmar began to look at her and see fragility.

"Woman," He would say, every time. And she would turn to look at him, the deep green eyes fathomless and enveloping, and wait for him to continue. "That battle is over."

"I know, Galmar," She would say, looking back out over the charred and burned bodies. And she would say nothing more, and he would leave her until she came back to camp an hour or so later. He never did figure out why she stayed out with those bodies. It was almost as though she was trying guide the souls to Sovngarde herself.

Another thing he would notice is that when she finally did came back to camp, and her fellow soldiers asked her questions, she would never answer. It was as though as soon as she stepped out of his or Ulfric's presence, she became mute and unreachable, a thing too perfectly porcelain to be real, sitting on the edges of eternity.

It took him a long time to realize that she was young, maybe in her 20s. And he could not for the life of him figure out why he had thought she was older, except for the weight she seemed to carry on her face and her heart. Normally, he didn't bother thinking this much about his soldiers, but she was, in every way, an anomaly. A red headed, short, beautiful, fragile looking Breton mage, fighting a war meant for strong, large, Nord warriors.

"The men have taken to calling you Fire-Hammer," He told her one day, "For your ferocity in battle. So that is what we shall call you, from here on out. Fire-Hammer." She didn't respond, merely nodded, which made him wonder that a fighter with as much power and passion as she had could possibly be so dead outside the battlefield.

"How is she doing, Galmar?"

Galmar looked up from the map where he had been mapping out strategies. "As a soldier? She is absolutely brilliant."

"You speak as though there were more to say."

"Her flame shines only on the battlefield, my King," He explains, "As soon as she steps off of it, it becomes only cinders."

"What do you mean by that?"

"She speaks a word to no one but you and I," He says, "Her fellow soldiers think she is a mute and I have no evidence to convince them otherwise."

"Hmm," Said Ulfric, "That is indeed interesting. Send her to me when you see her next."

Gaella really, _really_ didn't want to go see Ulfric. "This is an important battle. If we win this last tower, we'll retake the Reach."

"I think we will be fine without you this time," Galmar said. "If you had only answered my summons earlier, perhaps you could have attended."

She scowled heavily. "I was training."

"Indeed," Galmar said, "You were training during each of the five messages I sent you."

She set her mouth and didn't reply.

"Go see our King, and by Talos, be respectful for once. It is a great honor for him to seek a private audience with you."

Gaella didn't feel honored. In fact, she was fairly sure what he wanted to ask of her. And should he ask it...

...Well, she didn't know what she would do, then.

Honestly, she considered running. She stared up at the massive doors to Ulfric's palace, and marveled at just how much she wanted to run away right now. But she could not. This man had never wronged her before, and had even helped to give her a new purpose. The least she could do was hear him out.

So against all of her better instincts, she entered, even though she knew she would regret it later.

"I must admit," The great and true High King of Skyrim said to her, "That I was starting to wonder if you would come."

"Does a soldier have a choice when her King calls upon her?"

"Does a human have free-will?"

"Debatable, when will is subjective and easily manipulated."

"You do not seem the kind that is easily manipulated. You are here because you want to be here, not because you truly believed you did not have a choice."

For once, she is silent.

Ulfric stands, stepping down from his throne, and inspects the woman standing before him. She wears robes instead of armor, as befitting of her class, but they are still blue and emblazoned with the Stormcloak bear to mark her as one of his own. Perhaps his gaze gives away something he hadn't meant it to, for the woman squirms and wears an expression of discomfort.

"What ails you?"

"That's a broad question, don't you think?"

"Why do you become uncomfortable when I look upon you?"

"...I know that look, High King," She says, gritting her teeth.

Ulfric would smirk, but for that she looked so uncomfortable. "My apologies. I had meant simply to convey admiration."

"Yeah, right," She mutters, and won't look at him.

Ulfric tilts his head, honestly confused. "What is this?" He asks, walking in front of her. "Where is the Fire-Hammer that left my palace walls and struck fear into the hearts of our combined enemy?"

"I'm right here. Why are you asking stupid questions? You are not a stupid man."

Ulfric smiles. So there were still some flames left, after all. "Galmar tells me you do not talk to your fellow soldiers. That you do not make friends."

"What are you, my mother? What do you care? I'm just a soldier in your army." She sounds spiteful, angry.

He reaches for her, and lifts her chin up to look at him, gently, with a finger. "It is my place to decide who I do and do not care about," He says firmly, looking into her eyes, and he could swear he saw her wilting. Her gaze turns from him rather quickly, and he lets go of her chin. "So answer my question. Why do you keep to yourself?"

"There is no reason to make friends when they will just die tomorrow," She says bluntly. "This is the life of a soldier. Were I simply a city guard or court mage, it would be different. This is bloody, all-out war against an enemy more numerous than we are. What matters in the end is my own ability to protect them as best I can, and to win the war."

"Of this I can not argue, but do you not get lonely, simply being a soldier?"

"No," She says.

"You are lying to me."

"Look, Ulfric." She sighs, rubbing her face. "I don't understand the point of this. I came to join your cause, and I proved myself and joined it. Why are you trying to be...I don't even know what you're trying to be. But I sure as hell know you don't take a moody soldier away from a battle to speak to them about feelings and relationships and being alone. Why don't you tell me what you really want?"

Ulfric, despite himself, smiled. Even in her stubbornness, her honesty refreshed him like a fresh mountain stream. "I'm not sure you want to know," He said.

"I despise bullshit more than you do," She says bluntly. "Can we get to the point?"

He beckoned her over, and she followed him, albeit reluctantly, to a different room, much more private, with its own table where they could sit. "Sit," He commands, if only because he knows it will annoy her, and turns to pour some mead. When he is done and turns around, she still hasn't sat. He raises an eyebrow at her.

"...It's rude to sit before the King does, sir." She says, the smallest smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

"...Such a chess player," He says, walking over, putting the cups of mead down. "Don't bother with it, though I admire the set-up. I know you simply disobeyed me to disobey me, not because you were truly worried about what was proper and what was improper."

"It isn't often I find a good excuse to disobey a King. I figure I ought to take advantage of it when I can."

He stands above her- and truly, she is small, he realizes, looking down on her. Perhaps not for a Breton, but he is at least a foot taller than her, and he makes use of that height. "Gives you a little more control, which you lack," He says, and he can tell by the way she freezes that he is correct.

"I believe I've found the issue," He says smugly.

"Great. Can I go now?"

"No."

She sighs, irritatedly.

Ulfric leans in, close- uncomfortably close, he knew, and a part of him hated to do it this way- and caught her upper arms as she tried to scoot away. "I am your King," He whispered, and he felt her shiver beneath him, though from what, he couldn't say. His instincts told him fear. "If you cannot trust me to have control and power over you, then you are a fool to have chosen this side. Tell me, Fire-Hammer, oh brightly burning flame...why do you fight for me?"

"Let me go," She says weakly, and he notices, not with a little interest, that her voice sounds near tears.

He doesn't let her go, but he does straighten back up, and look down at her. She seems to have shrunk inside of herself, now refusing to even look at him. It would seem that even the smallest display of power could do this to her...he would have to proceed carefully.

"Why do you fight for me?" He asked again, his voice more forceful, his grip firm. He hoped to make it clear that he would not release her until she answered him.

And it does take a while. He is staring at her for what feels like an hour, though he knows it could not possibly be that long, until his hands start to ache from being in the same place for so long. But she finally whispers something...of course, he can't hear it.

"Speak up, woman," He orders.

"...Because you gave me a reason to live when I had none. Because you gave me hope."

"Ah," He said, and the answer pleased him. "And now?"

"And now I'd prefer to keep you at arm's length, sir."

"Sir...?" He shook his head. "Don't start that. You are too good for that. Why are you acting this way? If you fight for me because I gave you something to live for, why do you refuse to speak to me, even on equal terms? Why do you wish to stay removed from me?"

She is silent.

"Why do you separate yourself from those who would care for you?" He raises his voice, becoming frustrated. He is a patient man when he needs to be, but his patience for this has run out. "By Talos, woman-"

"I don't believe in that," She says quickly, and her answer so confuses him that he stops.

"You don't believe in what? Talos?"

"I don't believe in those that would claim they care for me. Sir." She adds obstinately.

"...Ah, yes. So that is what I saw in you at Helgen. That is why I was transfixed."

"It's just the hair."

"No," He says, unwilling to let her lighten the conversation. "You are the face of the Empire's victims, downtrodden and miserable. A beautiful thing beaten down by those who care nothing for others."

"The Empire didn't get me into that state," She says.

"What did?"

And then there was silence, and he sighs. He makes the mistake of letting her go, and she does something unexpected.

She runs.

Gaella hadn't the slightest idea why she was running from him. She didn't understand it herself. All she knew is that she had to get away from him, right now, or things would be horrible. Something bad was going to happen.

What she didn't know, or expect, was that Ulfric could be so damn _fast. _It didn't help that he knew the castle better than she did, and before she could get far, he was in the doorway of the adjacent room, arms crossed. And the look he gave her, dark and brooding, scared her so much she thought she would cry.

_I knew it would be like this,_ She bemoaned on the inside, _Oh, Gods, why did I come? Why did I do this to myself?_

"Why do you run from me? To think, you won't run from Imperials, but from your own King..."

She backs up, and to her detriment, he follows her. She belatedly realizes that this amuses him. This is a challenge, a hunt. She the prey, and he, the hunter. Except it was worse. At least the prey in the wild knew that they would die if they were caught. Who knows what Ulfric would do to her, once he caught her. She couldn't read his face, nor see his intentions in those blue eyes, now stormy instead of calm. "Stop," She says, "I only run because you chase me."

"I only chase you because you run."

Pretty soon, her back hits the wall, and there is nowhere else to back away to. And then Ulfric is upon her, pinning her against the wall, one arm to either side of her. Uncomfortably close.

"I'll ask you again," He said, "What made you like this?"

"Life!" She yells at him. "Life did, and you're not going to fix my issues this way. You're only going to make them worse! You're going to ruin my view of you even farther, and fairly soon-"

He put his finger on her lips to quiet her. "No," He said quietly. "You will talk. I don't care how many moons it takes, or how far I have to chase you. You and I are two people destined to change the world. And you..._dovahkin,_ this is behavior unbecoming. Where is the woman that called me a horse's ass the first day we met?"

She resists the urge to bite his finger.

"You do not have to talk now. But rest assured, this will not be my last summons." He moves his finger.

"How do you know I won't be clear out of here as soon as you move?"

"Because you and I have too much in common for you to run."

"Such as?"

"Burdens too big for us to bear alone. A hatred for the Empire. And..."

"...And?" She's afraid to ask.

Ulfric reaches down and turns her face towards him again. "A desire to protect the weak," He says quietly. "Against all those that would take advantage of, and destroy them."

Gaella says nothing, but her eyes start to overflow with tears.

He lets go of her chin, sighing. Perhaps the tears were a necessary thing, but still he hated them. And furthermore, he didn't know why he cared so much in the first place. He didn't know why he wanted to heal and protect this woman. She was right. She should have just been any other soldier in his army. But despite himself, he ended up putting his hand on her back and pulling her into him. Before he'd even fully registered himself doing that, he found himself wrapping her arms around her and holding her tightly as she cried.

_Talos guide me,_ he thought, looking at the ceiling, feeling many strange emotions at once. She- Gaella Fire-Hammer- was the face of victims everywhere, and he didn't even know for what. He didn't know what had happened to her, for she wouldn't tell him. He wondered if he would ever know. He decided that it would be okay, if he could just get her to smile again. If he could just get her to laugh...Breton or not, she was one of his people now, and to let her suffer so was not something he would stand idly by and do.

"Gaella," He asks quietly. "What is your real name?"

"...Lucinda," She whimpers. "It's Lucinda."

"Lucinda is a beautiful name. You should keep it."

"No," She says, "I don't want to have that name anymore."

"Very well. May I call you Lucinda, when it's you and I?"

"If you have to. I hate that name."

"Why?"

"My family gave it to me."

He was silent, pondering this. He decided to make a joke. "Yes, that is generally how one receives a name."

"The difference is that they are normally born out of love. My family had no love for me."

"And that is why you are here."

"Yes..."

"Well, then, Lucinda," He says, "How about this..."

She sniffles, wiping her face, and looks up at him. Ulfric feels a strange pain in his chest, looking at those haunting eyes, and before he knows what he is saying, he says it:

"If you continue to fight for me, I promise that when we win the war, I will make you my High Queen. You will never have to worry about anything ever again."

Her jaw drops open, and he has to double check to make sure the emotion he's reading on her face is truly what it is.

...It is. Rage. Unbridled rage.


	3. Chapter 3: Those Who Can Never Return

**A/N: There is a little bit of embellishment in this chapter on the part of Lokir of Rorickstead. **You have been forewarned, please do not p/m or comment/review that he wasn't a Breton, he was a Nord. It's irrelevant.

I also wanted to address a question/comment earlier. Gaella is pretty in a very classic way, but it is far more of a curse than anything else. She very much gets into so much trouble that would be avoided if she was plain. This is how it was in the time period Skyrim is based on, and if you go into Whiterun on a female, just about all the women will comment to you sympathetically about how rough it is to be a woman, how the men follow you like dogs, how they treat you like meat. Olfina offers you a little advice, "I know it's tough, but stay strong, and they'll respect you eventually." Carlotta asks you to make a certain philandering bard stop bothering her (I'm not sure that I was ever more satisfied to beat up anyone in my life!). I based the character's beauty off of these things, because let's face it, characters that are average and face absolutely no adversity are boring. :) The theme of this chapter is hope, strength, and perseverance even when the world itself is against you.

Also- thanks to everyone for reading. This chapter is extra long, and I would recommend "Shalott," "Marry me," and "Thank God I'm Pretty," by Emilie Autumn as musical accompaniment to this chapter if you are so inclined. Almost all of the lines to each song were used as inspiration for this chapter.

Thanks for the kind words and reviews! :) Enjoy!

_Marry me, he said,_

_Through his rotten teeth,_

_Bad breath, and then_

_Marry me instead of that strapping young goatherd_

_But when I was in his bed, and my father had sold me_

_I knew I hadn't any choice, I'd lost my voice,_

_So I did what any girl would do..._

"Marry Me", Emilie Autumn. 

There was only on thought on her mind at that moment, and it was getting out of there and sd far away as fast as she could possibly get.

For once, the stoic mask of the man is broken, revealing an intense confusion within his visage.

"Let go of me," Gaella said, shaking- though this time, with rage. "Right now."

The Jarl of Whiterun is not generally accustomed to taking orders, and he does not like that she has commanded him, but he indulges her this once, and lets her go as requested. First and foremost a good man, secondarily, a king to his people. At least that's what he's had to remind himself of this entire time...

"I hereby resign from your service. And I'm leaving."

She tries to stride past him and he grabs her arm to stop her. "What do you mean, you resign?"

She brings up her fist like she would punch him, but he catches it the instant she moves, his experience far faster than her reflexes. He scoffs slightly, "Your form is horrid. This is why you are a mage, and not a warrior. Where has your sense gone to, girl?"

"Obviously it's taken leave, I trusted you for a good ten minutes."

Now Ulfric is doubly confused. "You're offended? You no longer trust me?" He asked incredulously.

"What the hell do you expect from me, Ulfric Stormcloak? You think I'm going to be happy you want me as your broodmare instead of your soldier?"

"Don't be daft," He snarls, taking personal offense, "If I wanted a broodmare, I'd have one. And I do believe I made an offer with the condition that you _continue fighting_ for the cause. It's not as though I expect you to lounge around drinking milk all day like an honorless noble."

"Well, I refuse."

"Reconsider."

She pulled away from him, breaking his grip on her arm and fist. "Never," She said stubbornly, her voice aghast and angry.

"Fine. But stay the night, and take leave tomorrow. It's getting dark."

"I don't believe you'd let me out," Gaella shoots back, anger twisting her features, "You're going to lock me in my rooms."

"By Talos, woman. Do you really think me so sad a man that I have to kidnap a woman to make her marry me? Do you?"

She narrows her eyes. It was interesting, Ulfric thought, to watch how anger, hatred, and spite could turn someone beautiful into someone ugly. Both inside and out. He belatedly wonders if, for the first time, he had been wrong about her.

"You may be beautiful," He said, angry himself, "But I could care less if your face looked like the back of my horse. I want you for High Queen for your passion, determination, and steadfast strength. You are the perfect inspiration for my people. I want the woman who marched into a foreign country, in the middle of those who wouldn't accept her, and fought simply because she believed it was the right thing to do. Perhaps you should think about that."

"I don't care about your reasons."

Ulfric shook his head, now beginning to gain a headache. "You will stay the night, and you will not leave until a decent hour tomorrow morning. This is not a negotiation."

"Or else what?"

"You've got a choice. You can stay in your rooms or stay in the jail."

She set her lip, and Ulfric, despite himself, was slightly amused that she was actually considering which option to choose. "There are quite a lot of dead skeevers in the dungeons, and I'm sure that the other prisoners aren't nearly as gracious as I."

"They are the same thing," She persists, "The only difference is luxury."

"Then the choice is up to you. If you will excuse me, I have some planning to do. We take another city within the week."

He brushes past her, without once looking back.

Gaella Firehammer looked after the man that was Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak, watched him walk away from her after delivering his ultimatum.

She had once thought that man was someone she could have fallen for.

If only he hadn't asked to marry her...

Many years ago, when Gaella was still Lucinda, or Lucy as she preferred (though no one paid attention to what she preferred), she'd been a somewhat happy child. Her rose-colored goggles were just as big as anyone else's, maybe even bigger, under the cloud of her father's wealth.

But then she turned 5, and they started making her take lessons she didn't like.

"But daddy," She whined, tugging on her father's pants, "Why do I have to learn magic? I don't like magic. I want to learn to use the sword."

The man kicked out and hit his little daughter with his boot, effectively, and cruelly, removing her from his pants. "Don't be stupid, Lucinda," He said, sharp nose held high in the air. The fact that his daughter was now clutching her stomach and crying had no effect on him. His own rage, and interests, pervaded everything else. "We are Bretons. We are people who are more gifted in magic than any other race. I would never allow you to debase our family by becoming anything less than the most talented mage. Now get back to your studies."

"But what about being a bard, daddy?" The girl managed through her tears, rubbing at her eyes. "I really like the singing lessons you got me."

"That was your mother's idea," He spat, "And it's only because it'll help us attract a better candidate for you when you're old enough to marry."

The man strode off without another glance at her.

That was Gaella's first real memory of her father. All those before were irrelevant. They had never been filled with love. But that first memory, that she so cherished, was the moment when she realized that she had no real place in the world.

Especially not with her family.

Still, through her youth, she stuck it out like a good girl- what choice did she have? And when the boys on the street teased her and called her fat, and stupid, and ugly, she went home and cried same as any other child.

Her childhood was normal in that way. She didn't have a lot of friends, but that was normal for a noble family, as well.

Things didn't really start to get any worse until she started blossoming in her mid teens.

It was a gradual thing, watching her face fill out in better areas, watching her figure slowly morph from that of an awkward teenager into the curves of a woman. But it never truly hit her what this would mean. The word and idea of 'beauty' never crossed her mind, until small, strange things started happening.

There would be a boy following her home from the market every day. It wasn't always the same boy, but sometimes it was. She was too young to realize what it meant, too naïve. Her lessons focused soley on magic, manners, singing, and grace, and talked nothing of politics nor the behaviors of others. It was truly a pity, because she had always found it fascinating, the way people acted and why.

She would hear weird noises, sometimes, walking the streets- a whistle, as though someone were whistling for their horse, even if there were no horses around. But these things, too, she pushed to the back of her mind. She labeled them happenstance, and insignificant.

Then one day, when she was browsing a jewelry stall, a beautiful necklace caught her eye. It was a rose- or at least, the woodwork and painting made it look remarkably like that.

"Do you like it, miss? Made it meself just this weekend." The ratty-looking shop-keeper grinned, revealing far too few teeth.

Lucinda smiled softly, nodding graciously. Grace and modesty in all things. "It is truly a work of art. A fine thing. I commend you."

"Then, allow me..." Another voice..this one came from behind her. She turned and saw an unfathomably ugly man.

"...Allow you to what, I'm sorry..?" Lucinda asked, confused.

"Buy it for you."

"Oh! Oh, Lord Hyalt, it is you!" The shop-keeper looked as though he might wet himself from excitement.

"Indeed it is..."

Lucinda studied this man. He was ugly: his nose was far too big, and bulbous as though he had managed to grow boils underneath his skin. He was old, balding, and his breath stunk. What little hair he had was unkempt and he smelled like too much ale. But his clothes were of the finest quality, and when he pulled out a coin-purse that was altogether too heavy, she pieced together that, whoever this was, he was of some importance.

"Whichever one this beautiful lady wanted, give it to her. This should be more than sufficient."

The man placed a large coin purse on the stand, and the shop-keeper about had a heart attack.

"...It's not worth that much," Lucinda said, trying to be gracious and polite.

"Why not spread some good cheer, miss? I'm in a good mood. It's not often I see such beauty on the streets. Tell me, who is your father?"

Lucinda wondered to herself if he was trying to impress her, throwing around his coin like that. It actually had the opposite effect. He was very stupid. If he truly wanted to spread his wealth he ought to donate to charity, or one of the temples. Not pay triple the price for a simple wood-work piece to impress some woman he'd never seen before.

"John Blackwood, sir."

"Ah, Blackwood! Yes, indeed. Very good! Excellent! Your upbringing was undoubtedly precise. You'll have all the skills you need."

Lucinda wondered what he meant, but her instincts told her to keep quiet. She merely nodded. The fat, ugly man bent down and kissed her hand, spreading his putrid stench and ale-infused saliva onto her hand. She wanted more than anything to pull it away and take a month-long bath, but that would not be the proper thing. Instead she curtsied gracefully, as she'd been taught. "Thank you sir," She said automatically, "I am very flattered. Thank you for your generosity."

She didn't realize at the time that she had been thanking him for what she hadn't realized was, in essence, a proposal.

She didn't realize that her life was about to change beyond her wildest dreams.

So when she saw the boy around her age on her way home, shoveling hay into a cart, something inside of her made her stop, and she looked at him in wonder.

He was a tall boy- and for sure, he was not a Breton. In fact, she was fairly sure he was not human at all. His ears were long and pointed, his features sharp, his eyes all-together too large. Everything she had been taught about beauty and perfection, this boy defied.

And the beauty that he held in that was so immense that it made her heart ache in wonder.

_Actually_, she belatedly thought, if he is a _Bosmer, than do I really know what age he is?_

Then she wondered, _Does it really matter_?

The Bosmer noticed the woman staring at him, and straightened up, wiping sweat off his brow. "Can I help you, Miss?" He asked, and his exotic accent just made her swoon inside all the more. "Are you lost?"

"...Forgive me," Lucinda said, curtsying. "...It is just that...you are very handsome. It is not often I see the sight of a beautiful man."

The Bosmer looked incredibly confused, taken aback, and flattered, all at the same time. "...Are you feeling alright, miss? Do you..perhaps have a fever? Forgive me...may I check?"

She nodded, not quite knowing how you check for a fever. Perhaps she could learn!

The Bosmer wiped his hands on his pants and strode forward, then placed the back of his hand against her forehead.

The sensation of such a simple gesture almost knocked her off-balance. Luckily for her the Bosmer noticed, and steadied her.

"...You don't have a fever, but are you...feeling dizzy? Do you need to sit? Some water?"

"No, it's just..."

"..It's just what?"

"...No one's ever touched me like that before."

"...No one's ever taken your temperature?" The Bosmer moved his hand, looking confused.

"No one's ever.."At the time, she didn't have the words, and so she just shook her head, and said, "I am sorry...I don't know how to explain."

The words she were looking for, she realized when it was later and she was older, were 'gentle', 'kind', and 'miraculous.'

Eventually the Bosmer, whose name was Tyrtael, came to accept her compliment graciously, although with a bit of confused caution. He asked her if he could see her again, and she professed with open, naïve honesty that she hoped she would see him again, several times. Maybe more.

Tyrtael had smiled at that, though when Gaella looked back on it now, she realized just how much melancholy his eyes had held that day.

Needless to say...Lucinda went back to the same area every day that week, and a few after, and she and Tyrtael would talk for hours while he did his work. He was just a plain stable-boy, but he taught her how to ride horses and how to communicate with them, a truly wondrous gift.

"Gently rub the nose. They may not admit it, but they love it."

Lucinda looked dubiously at the horse, a large, intimidating black stallion that looked as though he could crush her with one chomp of his mighty mouth.

"Here.." Tyrtael took her hand, and Lucinda felt a wild blush run to her cheeks, and a rapid flutter befall her heart. She tried her best to pay attention, but she didn't hear the words he was saying to her. Only did she notice how well their hands fit together, his long and lithe and stained, and hers small and stubby, yet immaculately maintained.

True to Tyrtael's word, the horse snorted in happiness, and nuzzled her hand. Lucinda gasped in wonder. "He likes it!" She says, and she hears her friend laughing.

"Yes. I told you, didn't I?"

"Yes...oh, but you are magnificent, Sir Horse. I bet you get all the mares."

The horse blows right in her hair, and makes as though he would eat it, causing a funny, tickling sensation that makes Lucinda laugh heavily.

"I got permission from my boss to ride him once all my work is done. I'll take you with me. Just be sure to hold onto me."

"Really?"

"Yep." He grinned sheepishly, and the look she gave him was filled with love.

"Thank you," She said breathlessly, "This is the best gift anyone's ever given me."

"..I'm only going to have you ride behind me for an hour or so. Any longer than that and you'll be sore, and master will be angry," He said hurriedly, looking sheepish.

"Not that..."

"What then?"

"Your...friendship."

He blinked a few times. "I...I never thought about it that way."

"Well, I have," Lucinda said, rubbing the horse's neck. "I've never had a friend before."

That afternoon, when he took her riding as promised, she linked her arms around his waist as he instructed, and laid into his back. She could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric, and the sensation of the wind blowing through her hair as they rode through the hills. The sun lit through the trees, turning everything a warm shade of golden, and for the first time in her life, everything was perfect.

Needless to say, she fell very hard for the stable-boy.

A day or two later after she realized that, her father approached her while she was pouring over her studies.

"Good evening, father," She said brightly, happy with the world for once. Not even her father could sully her mood, or this precious thing she had found.

"I've got good news," Her father said, sparing no words for pleasantries. As usual. "I've found you a husband."

"You've...what?" She drops her pen, a million thoughts racing through her head. A husband? She wasn't even to come of age for another month, and then...

"Found you a husband, you stupid girl. I can finally get rid of you. And he's giving me a good deal, too."

"...I don't understand, father," She said, "Aren't you supposed to love the one you marry?"

"I _told_ your chambermaid that giving you fairy tales was a stupid idea. Love doesn't exist, child. It's a mythical emotion, created in the mind of sods with no heads for business and the ways of the real world."

"...You didn't love mother?"

"No," He said bluntly, "In fact, it was quite a relief when she died. Now I can no longer be blackmailed when I go out with some other woman."

Lucinda couldn't believe her ears...in fact, she was so sure that the problem with was with her ears, that she clapped her hands over them to protect herself.

"What are you doing that for?" Her father demanded, and wrenched her hands away. "You ought to be happy. He's a very wealthy man, you'll have all the pretty things you could ever want, and I gain a wonderful and prosperous business partner. It's a win-win situation all around."

"I don't care about pretty things," She said miserably, "I just want to be happy."

"You _are_ stupid. Pretty things are what makes a woman happy. You will get married on your birthday. And you be sure to provide him with plenty of sons to continue on his bloodline. In the mean-time, I've got one of my own on the way."

"...I don't know how babies are made, daddy," She said in a small voice.

"You'll find out. Now get back to your studies." The man turned and strode back out.

Lucinda belatedly realized he'd never even told her who it was. However, it didn't take long for her to figure out.

With a scream of rage, she tore the rose necklace of her neck and threw it against the wall. She'd sold herself for a petty necklace, carved by an ugly shop-keeper that probably had never seen that much gold in his entire life. She didn't understand what was happening to her. She didn't understand why her father would sell her to such an ugly, horrible man, for the sake of his own self.

She knew, deep in her heart, though she had been surrounded by pretty things her whole life- and honestly, she never knew what it was to live without them-, she would happily live a life in squalor, sleeping in a haystack at night, if only it meant she could be happy.

If only it meant she could be with Tyrtael.

That was it. She'd go to Tyrtael. She'd take all her jewelry and sell it, and they could take the money and start a new life somewhere else. Far away from her father and his nasty lies.

There was no way he was right. Love wasn't a lie. Love wasn't a myth. It lived in her heart. It burned bright enough to light the darkest night.

With that, she started to gather her things. And just before the dawn's first rays had come through the windows, when all the servants and her horrid father was still asleep, she snuck out and ran the entire way to Tyrtael's shack.

Tyrtael didn't make a lot of money as a stable-boy. In fact, he didn't even have his own house. He lived on the property of his master, and in exchange for that and a minimal amount of coin per month, he took care of the horses and other miscellaneous chores around the farm.

By the time she got there, her heart was pounding so hard, she thought it might come out of her chest. She knew Tyrtael was awake about this time every morning. He woke up with the cows and roosters. She pounded heavily on his door, calling his name, much too loudly.

He opened the door, blearly with sleep. "Shhh," He said immediately, and indeed, she did quiet, but because the sight of him looking rumpled and shirtless made her feel stange. The feeling was intense and unfamiliar, and she decided she didn't like it.

She didn't like it at all.

"...Lucinda, what are you doing here? Why do you have a pack? Why in blazes are you up this early...?"

She dropped her pack and went with her first instinct, and gave him a hug, pressing her cheek into his warm, bare torso. Another, better sensation filled her, a strange peace.

Tyrtael hesitated, and looked around. "...Okay, okay. Inside." He said reluctantly.

Lucinda nodded and let go, picking up her pack and hurrying inside the little hut.

He closed the door, and leaned against it, causing that strange feeling inside of her again, that she didn't understand. It became enveloping, and she was hyperaware of the fact that they were very, very alone.

"What's going on, Lucy," He asked softly, his face filled with compassion.

Her heart lifted at the sight- and at that of the pet name she wished everyone used. "My father," She said, "My father has arranged a marriage for me." And at this terrible revelation, she burst into tears.

Tyrtael did not, as she had fantasized about him doing, envelop her in his arms, kiss her forehead, and promise her eternity. He instead stood there, looking wholly unsurprised. "...Yes...? And?" He asked, seeming to be completely unruffled.

"Don't you see, Tyrtael?" She asked, frustrated now on top of everything else. "I can't marry anyone else.."

"Why not?" He asked, looking bewildered.

"Because I love _you!"_

That caught his attention. His eyes widened, and he straightened up. "...You don't know what you're saying," He said quietly.

"Of course I do. You're so kind to me, and so handsome. You make me happy. I think about you all the time, I fantasize about when I'll see you next, the things we'll do, what you'll teach me..."

"Lucinda...my friend...please. You are a noble and I am a stable-boy. I could never give you the life you deserve."

"I don't want any of that," She said honestly, keenly aware that she was whining. "I don't care if I have to sleep in hay piles for the rest of my life. All I want is the feeling you give me, just by being around."

"You said you loved me."

"Yes!"

"And that is the reason you could not marry the man your father picked."

"Yes!"

"Because you do not love him."

"Yes- how many times do I have to say it, Tyrtael?"

"...Did it ever occur to you," He said softly, "That perhaps I do not love you?"

Time stopped. Everything in the world that was warm became cold. It was almost as though she had shattered into a thousand pieces.

"...Don't misunderstand. You are very, very beautiful. Any man would be lucky to take you for his wife. But you are a human," He said, "And you are much too young."

"Aren't...you young too?" She squeezed out, tears leaking from her face.

"To my people. But humans and elves are very different."

"Why does it matter? I'm turning of the legal age next month."

"..Lucinda. I cannot run away with you," He said bluntly, "My life is here on this farm, with the horses, pigs, and cows. When I've saved up enough coin I will take a wife, a wood elf like me, and we will live a quiet life with only exactly what we need. You will marry a rich man and have everything you want for the rest of your life." He was callous. Cold. "Honestly, I don't understand why you're so upset. I envy you."

"My father sold me, and your excuse as to why it's okay, is that the man he sold me to will buy me whatever I want?"

"It sounds like a good trade-off to me."

"He can't buy me whatever I want."

"I doubt that. In order for a man to afford a wife of your status, talent, and beauty, he has to be beyond wealthy."

"He can't buy me you."

There is an awkward silence. "...You ought to go now," Tyrtael said finally. "I have to get ready for work."

She picked up her pack wordlessly, and stared at the Elf. She wanted to say so many things, throw a punch, throw furniture, throw words- throw anything that could possibly make him realize how much pain he had caused her. But she was too broken, and the words wouldn't come. She couldn't channel anger for how crushed she felt.

When he said nothing, she left the hut, unable to cope with the reality of what was.

Her father's men had found her later. She hadn't the slightest idea where she was, or where she was going. She was so dazed that, apparently, she had just wandered around the city for hours. When her father had discovered that both she and her things were gone, he'd sent men out immediately.

Like obedient dogs, the men returned her to her father like a stick to be fetched. And, just like dogs, he rewarded them for the successful completion of the trick.

He turned his cold gaze upon Lucinda, not even bothering to wait until everyone was gone. "You are stupid, and the only worth you have, or will ever have, is in who you marry and how many sons you bear. Your excursion today proves that. Should you have managed to get beyond the city walls, you would have been killed by wolves, a skeever, or worse. I bet you didn't even find and pack a weapon."

She was silent.

"Idiotic girl. Take her to the tower on the lake. Keep her locked up, and studying. She is not to be released until her birthday, when she will marry Lord Hyalt."

The men nodded and dragged her away. She was still in a daze, and even if she wasn't, a young maiden couldn't put up much of a fight against trained soldiers anyway. They took her to the lake behind her family's property, and rowed her across the water in a tiny boat that barely fit all of them.

They locked her in the tower and left her, and she lay upon the floor for an immeasurable amount of time, beaten and broken, reduced to less than nothing.

_The only worth you will ever have is who you marry and how many sons you bear._

That couldn't possibly be true. If her whole life amounted to that, then why would the Gods teach her how to love at all- mythical or not, she was sure that was what she felt for Tyrtael. What she still felt, even though she was angrier at him than she could ever say. Why would the Gods make such an empty purpose? Things would never make her happy. She was sure of that. All her life, she had every _thing_ she ever wanted.

Except happiness.

She had been awoken by her chambermaid some time later– the only person who had ever been truly kind to her in her entire life.

"Come, dear...let's get you up, and washed."

She didn't know how long she had been laying there, but she became keenly aware that she didn't smell the best, and she very badly had to use the chamberpot.

So she followed the maid up the stairs and allowed the maid to bathe and dress her, as she had all of these years.

More than anything, she appreciated that her maid- Gleena – didn't feel the need to keep up a steady steam of unnecessary chatter. Gleena was an old woman who did things the way she always had done, and who realized the value of silence. Gleena was more of a mother than Lucy had ever known, and upon realizing this, she started to cry with the inability to express her feelings.

And Gleena, somehow, in the way that mothers do, just seemed to know. Gleena held Lucinda for a long, long time as she cried, and never spoke a word.

The days dragged on like years. Her father never came to check on her- nor did anyone else but Gleena, though she entertained fantasies of Tyrtael visiting her, saving her, and telling her he'd been wrong. That he loved her, had always loved her, he had made a mistake, and could she forgive him. And always in her mind, she unconditionally, said yes. Just like in her storybooks.

It was coming closer and closer to her wedding day. Every day she had been doing nothing but practicing her sewing (which she was still terrible at, despite all her best efforts), singing, reading and writing. She had at some point promised herself to grow her hair out, just like the fable, for want of a knight to climb up it and deliver her from her impending wedding. May as well. No matter how fast or how slow this month went by, she would never forget this feeling or experience. She would never forget the horror with which she had come to realize that her entire life, she had been unloved. Admiration for whatever beauty she allegedly had would never be love. And had her father not forseen it, and had there been daggers or perhaps some matches around, she would have made sure that she ruined the beauty that Lord Hyalt had bought and paid for. Maybe she'd get lucky and he'd decide otherwise, then. Beauty was a waste of time and a waste of admiration, a thing that would be gone in a few years time, and then what would she have left, but a bunch of babies that she never wanted and an ugly husband that loved ale more than he would ever love her?

One day when she was sewing, and Gleena was watching her quietly from the corner, the old woman finally spoke.

"Lucy," She said quietly.

"...Yes?" She looked up from her continuously failed embroidery. "Do you have a recommendation?"

"Yes," Gleena said, "But not about your needlework. I want you to leave."

"...Leave?" Lucinda was confused.

"First and foremost, leave this tower. Next, the city. And then, hopefully, High Rock. Your father is a well known man here with much influence. You would be safer in another province. Perhaps Skyrim. I hear their trade is bustling, and many Khajit caravans have taken to traveling all over the province. You could barter your jewelry with them in exhange for passage."

"...Gleena. I can't leave. And they took all my jewelry. They took anything of worth, anything sharp, anything I could have used to pick the lock, or make rope...and they locked me in."

"...Lucinda, what I am about to tell you is very important. And I want you to listen to it, and remember every single word I tell you. It may, perhaps, be the most important thing I've ever said in my life, in all of my years, and I've had more than a few."

Lucy blinked, and straightened up, leaning forward.

"Your father does not, nor will he ever, deserve a daughter like you. Your looks be damned, you are smart, courageous, quick-witted, passionate, and selfless. You will still be one of the most beautiful women in the world, whether you are 20, 40, or 80, because of these qualities, which are far preferable to any and all the lies he's fed you over the years. Love exists. It has always existed, despite men like your father trying their hardest to stamp it out. And you are more than your ability to produce sons, more than your face, more than a pretty dress, and voice, and, my darling, you are _not_ an item to be bought or sold."

Tears began to roll down Lucinda's cheeks, as her lower lip trembled.

"My dear, I knew I taught you this, but this last month, I have watched them strip everything I have worked to build within you away. I have watched them beat you down and break you, and I have had enough. No amount of septims, or the prettiest house in all of Tamriel, could ever make me stand this treatment of you a moment longer."

"But, Gleena. The door.."

"I stole the key ages ago, my dear, and I have been leaving the tower door unlocked for the past two weeks in the hope that you would figure it out and escape."

Then all this time in this tower...wasted...

She sat there, then, and took a good look at the woman, the only source of good, the only person in the world that had ever inspired her, and asked her just this one thing. "Why are you helping me?"

"Because I can not stand to see such suffering, not from anyone, and neither should you. Ever."

She was unable to say anything more, the tears flowing all too freely now.

"You are the fairy-tale maiden without a knight, you are the princess for whom no prince ever came. So it is time to be your own knight and prince, and escape. Be good to yourself, be all you will ever need. Never depend on anyone else to make you happy. Now...I've packed your things. Let's get your hair into a more manageable state, for traveling. And we'll make sure you have enough rations and jewelry to get you across the border. It's long past time for you to live your own life."

The old woman helped her tie her hair into a ponytail, and brought her a traveling cloak to wrap around herself to keep her warm. "Wherever you end up, it might be cold. If you do end up going to Skyrim, it's freezing there. Be sure to get enough furred clothing."

Lucinda nodded, still feeling overwhelmed as they left that horrid, wretched prison of a tower, and rowed across the lake, towards Freedom. "What will you do now, Gleena?" She asked, turning to face her.

"Retire, finally. My last child is finally all grown up." The woman smiles and kisses her on the cheek, a kiss she gladly returns.

"I can never repay you," She said.

"Maybe not, but one never does what needs to be done in hope of repayment. There is only one thing I would ask of you."

"Anything."

"If you see a man named Lokir, in Skyrim...tell him his mother loves him very much."

She opened her mouth to ask if that was her son, but the old woman stopped her. "Don't waste your energy with questions. My time will come soon. By the time you ever manage to be back here, I will be long since dead. This will be the last time you ever see me."

She stood on that bank, looking out at the woman, so old and feeble, yet so strong and brilliant, her kindness shining brighter than all the stars in the sky could ever emulate. All she could do was hug the woman and squeeze more tears out of her eyes, though the tears had never stopped coming in the first place.

"What if I die, too? Will I see you in the afterlife?"

"You may very well die," She said, hugging the girl back with all of the strength she could muster, "But it would be so much better of a death than the life you would live if you stayed here."

With that, reluctantly, they parted ways before the first sunrise.

It took Gaella a very long time to manage to get down to the border to Skyrim. Her father was a trader and as such lived right on the bay, in a city very close to Hammerfell.

She had lost track of time. She didn't know how old she was anymore, though she knew she was still early into her adulthood. She had learned the tricks of speech quickly – as Gleena said, she was smart. All she had to do was watch how people bartered with the merchants and soon she got decent enough prices. No longer could anyone give her a bad deal because she didn't know any better.

And so with her very last piece of jewelry- a horrid gemstone cut into a rose, sent by none other than her to-be husband, she bartered herself a passage to the border of Skyrim.

The caravan wouldn't take her any farther than that border, so she changed into her new traveling clothes and hopped it on foot.

...Right into an Imperial ambush.

What was even more unexpected was meeting Lokir there. The worst part of it was not even knowing his name until the roll was called. She saw him run, and, fearful that he would get away before she could give him this message, this one last thing she had to do before she died, followed him.

And that was how she'd ended up holding Lokir and murmuring to him as he died: his mother's message, and a soft song meant to soothe those that passed on. She held the last person on Tamriel that she could call family, with bound wrists, slowly freezing to death in a roughspun tunic, and sung to him as he died.

That was how Ulfric remembered her, damn it. He remembered that woman with the firey red hair and the weight of the world in her eyes, the woman who put herself in danger of death just to catch a horse thief and sing to him as he died.

While he would never understand (though certainly stealing a horse was no crime to be executed for) why she put herself in danger like that for an act of compassion, he would always respect it. As he walked out of that room he cursed her for having the kind of qualities he wished all his men would possess.

By Talos, he could not lose her. He could not. He could not let that flame burn out, whether it burned by his side or not. But he could not quench it either by forcing her hand, and he could not stand to be the cause of more pain on the poor woman.

For the first time in many, many years, future High King Ulfric Stormcloak, had no idea what to do.


	4. Chapter 4: Those Who Do Not Understand

**A/N: **So I'm updating this more than I thought I would! I'd like to take the time to warn you guys right now that it's going to veer more towards a love triangle between Gaella, Ulfric, and a certain other mystery man. When it comes down to the whole 'which one' choice...I'll either have people comment and vote in the comments, or I'll just make two chapters, one with each ending. :) I'll decide when I get there.

Thanks for all the views and kind reviews! :)

_Beautiful is empty...  
>Beautiful is free...<br>Beautiful loves no one...  
>Beautiful stripped me .<em>

"Beautiful" - Creed

_ Damn Ulfric. Damn this city. Damn the dragons, damn my father, damn this entire world._

_ But most of all...damn this bed!_

She had been tossing and turning in that bed the entire night. It might have been her anxiety that was keeping her up, but more than likely it was the fact that, after years of sleeping on rough cots, floors, and the ground itself, she could not get used to a bed like this. It was in a palace, so of course the thing was overstuffed and soft, with perfumed and stupidly intricate bed sheets and only the finest and thickest furs and...

It was, overall, far too much like home.

_Damn you, Ulfric. Damn you._

Maybe she should have chosen the prison after all. She'd slept in a prison before. And she slept like a baby.

She groaned and turned over on her stomach, burying her head under a pillow. True to his word, Ulfric had stationed a guard outside her door. Just to be a pompous ass, no doubt. She'd tell him as such in the morning. However, that meant that she was stuck in here unless she felt like being escorted all the way to wherever the prison happened to be with everyone staring at her like a criminal.

She felt like a teenager, moody and angry at everything and nothing at once.

Out of frustration, she finally turned over and sat up, and knocked one of the numerous pillows to the floor by accident.

Then, something occurred to her.

"DUH," She said out loud. "Am I stupid now, too? Really? Good job, Luce. Great freaking job."

She realized that maybe she was both stupid _and _insane, because now she was talking to herself.

….Clearly this was Ulfric's fault too. He was making her angry, sad, annoyed, hurt, crazy, _and_ stupid. Well, at least he had talent.

With that last grumpy thought, she spread out some furs on the floor with the pillow, laid down, and was instantly asleep.

Galmar knew there was something wrong with Ulfric the minute he walked into the room.

"What now?" Galmar asked, dreading the worst. Perhaps Solitude had managed to intercept one of their couriers and therefore gain access to intelligence...

"...What do you mean?" Ulfric asked, walking over to survey the map of Skyrim. He normally would smile at how many capitals they'd managed to take; how the blue was slowly crowding out what used to be a sea of red. The ground they had been able to cover recently had been exceptional. They had been making headway before Fire-Hammer, but having the mage in their ranks had unexpectedly tipped the scales much more in their favor. The power of the dragonborn, he supposed.

_Damn it,_ _girl_, he grumbled internally, _what the hell are you thinking?_

"Ulfric, I know trouble when I see it on your face."

"It's nothing to be concerned about, Galmar."

Galmar trusted his king. He knew that if Ulfric told him not to worry about it, he shouldn't. So he didn't. "If it doesn't affect our battle, then I won't insist on knowing. You know I'll give you advice on whatever you want."

Ulfric rubbed his face. "...I think this is probably beyond you, Galmar."

"Feh..."

"...It is about Fire-Hammer."

"I'd been meaning to ask you why you wanted to see her."

Ulfric sighed, and placed his hands on the strategy table, leaning forward. "I wanted to understand her a bit better."

"Good luck with that," Galmar said sarcastically. "I can already tell where it went."

"She didn't tell me a single thing," Ulfric continued anyway, "In fact, never in my life have I ever failed so miserably in a task. In less than half an hour, I have managed to lose her loyalty, her trust, her respect...and she even attempted to resign from her rank."

"You can't be serious," Galmar said, his eyes widening. "...We can't lose her. She's a brilliant soldier. Just the word of the Dragonborn being in the Stormcloaks strikes fear into the heart of the Imperial dogs. And it doesn't _work_ that way...you can't just _resign._ Where is she? I would have words with her..." And by words, he meant that he would beat the sense back into her, just like he would with any other captain that behaved this way.

"In the guest room. I grabbed her before she left, and told her she had two choices. Sleep in the guest room, or sleep in prison. I gave her permission to leave in the morning if she still wished it."

"Ulfric, you can't let her leave."

"I can't make her stay."

"Sure you can, you are Ulfric Stormcloak!"

"And what respect would I be worthy of, if I had to force people to fight for me? How would that look for our cause?"

"If she is not with us, she is against us!"

"She is not against _us_, Galmar. She is against _me_."

"...What the hell happened? What did you do?"

"I offered her a place as my queen, once the war was over."

Galmar took a second to absorb the information, lifting a bottle of mead to his lips. Then, he said, "Of course you did. So what?" He took a drink.

"She said no."

Galmar spit the mead out, unfortunately all over the map. "What?"

"So therein you see the problem..."

"What in the name of the Gods," He yelled, "could ever possess a woman to say no to such a high honor, and a man such as you?"

Ulfric sighed again, and rubbed his neck. "I am old, Galmar," He said tiredly. "I am old enough to be her father. Perhaps that is it."

"Bullshit," said Galmar, "Women are supposed to like older men."

"I easily have 20 years on her."

"That can't be it. And still? Even so? The position of High Queen? Turned down because you just happen to be a few years older than her? I'll kill her. I'll kill her with my own hands."

"You will not lay a finger upon her," Ulfric said plainly.

"Gods, Ulfric. I knew that woman was trouble the minute she spoke to you. She has no reverence, no respect. She is a weak little thing."

"She is who she is, Galmar. But she is anything but weak. She is the first woman I could ever see ruling by my side. You were not there at Helgen to see how she behaved."

"And how was that?"

"Do you remember that I told you that the Empire murdered a horse thief?"

"Yes?"

"I don't even remember his name," Ulfric said honestly. "Lu-...Fire-Hammer hadn't met him before that day. And yet the minute he ran, she ran after him, as though she wanted to tell him something urgent. When the arrows struck him down...she stopped, and awkwardly gathered him into her arms, even though her hands were still bound. I don't know what she said to him. But I could hear her singing him to Sovngarde, ignoring the commanding shouts of the Imperials to get back in line, head back to the chopping block. She stayed there, singing and holding him as he died, until the thief was both lifeless and cold."

Galmar didn't know how to respond to that, except to sigh. "You know, Ulfric. Seeing her in her first battle, and how she reacted afterward...I gathered something."

"What's that?"

"I'm fairly sure she'd never killed anyone before that."

Ulfric paused, and the knowledge weighed on his heart. "Then, she was just a citizen, before."

"Aye. I believe so."

"And the puzzle simply gains more pieces..."

"What will you do, Ulfric?"

"What _should_ I do, Galmar?"

"Make her marry you. A King's proposal is not something that...it's not something that you can _refuse._"

"Believe it or not, Galmar, I prefer to have a wife that doesn't despise me."

"Then just take someone else as a wife. There are so many that would have you. Young ones, even, fit to bear sons."

"They don't interest me."

Galmar slams his fist on the table. "I don't know what to tell you, then! Fire-Hammer makes no sense, she barely speaks! Yes, she is unique. But it's either you have her spite and have her as your wife and/or soldier, or you let her leave and never see her again. And risk us losing this war."

There are some times, Ulfric finally realized, when it is not in the best interest of a country for a Jarl to be a good man.

That morning, however, he didn't have to deliver the news that would hurt the both of them terribly.

...Because, somehow, it had already gotten around.

In fact, he was woken by a palace guard early the next morning. In a way he'd been grateful to be woken up, because he'd been dreaming about Lucinda, screaming in agony, her voice echoing in his head.

"Jarl Ulfric! Jarl Ulfric! Come quickly! Come quickly!"

"What? What is it? What time is it?" He demanded, sitting up, and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. "Is Windhelm under siege?"

"No sir," The guard said quietly, "It is the princess."

"...The princess?"

"...Your to-be wife, sir. She is demanding to see you."

He was still half asleep and weary, and so he didn't think about the guard's words as much as he should have. Looking back on it he would realize that there was no way for the guard to know that she was to marry him. In fact, he had not even commanded such. He had only meant to command that she continue her service. There wasn't any way she changed her mind in the middle of the night...right?

...Who was he kidding? This was Lucinda. She was the most unpredictable being he had ever met.

"Fine," He said groggily, "I'll be in to see her in a second."

"Good. Thank you sir," The guard said, seeming uncomfortable.

Ulfric dressed, not inquiring further. He was still shaking the last vestiges of sleep from his mind.

He followed the guard to the guest chambers, where...it was conspicuously empty. "Where are the guards, her housecarl, her chambermaids?" He had already assigned all these people to her last night.

"...She sent everyone away, sir. Said she'd kill us all if we didn't get out of her sight that second."

"Of course," Ulfric said grumpily. Of course she would. Whatever this was...

When he finally reached the open door, he was immediately wide-awake. The first thing he noticed was a modest stack of cards and gifts. "By the Gods – what? Who sent these?" He strode into the room, and noticed that only one card had been opened. He also noticed something vastly more important.

Lucinda was sitting on the carpet on her hands and knees, in such a position of defeat and despair he felt his chest crush with the weight of it.

Immediately he rushed to her, and gathered her in his arms. She did not struggle, and that was when he knew something was _really_ wrong.

"Lucinda," He breathed. "What is it...what. Tell me."

"You told them," She said, and her voice was so quiet, so broken.

"Told them what?"

"...Sir..." The guard from before- he was very brave, Ulfric would have to commend him later- "...She's been like this since she opened the first of the congratulations cards."

"...Congratulations cards," He repeated, hollowly.

"Yes...on your engagement."

"...Who sent them?"

"The noble houses right here in Windhelm, sir."

"...Who announced this engagement?"

The guard blinked. "...Didn't you, sir?"

"No. No, I did not."

"Then...I'm not sure, my lord. All of the staff knew this morning."

All of the staff knew? But he could have sworn he sent them away when he was arguing with her last night. He even took her into a back room so they wouldn't be overheard. Had Galmar...?

"...Did Galmar say anything?"

"No, sir. Lord Galmar is still asleep."

Who in Talos' name had done this?

He looked down to the limp thing in his arms, and noticed things he hadn't before. How small she was, how light. How dull she looked like this. "Lucinda," He breathed. "Please...talk to me. Tell me why this upsets you so. Please. I can't stand this..." He, a person of such importance, with all the power he worked hard to gather, felt so powerless in this moment.

But little did he know, the words she had spoken to the last night were the last she'd speak to him- at least, for a very long time.

He held her, and he waited. He waited long after the guard had excused himself to his usual duties. He waited until his mortal body could no longer stand it, and he had to tend to the hygienic needs of his body. And when he returned, she had finally, blessedly moved. She had curled up, hugging her knees to her chest.

"Lucinda. You need to dress and shower. It's almost mid-day." His tone was stern. "I can't have this. You're acting like a child."

There was no response. She didn't move.

He sighed in exasperation and turned to leave, finally giving up.

"...How could you do this to me?"

He never knew it was possible for one voice to hold so much heartbreak.

"I didn't," He replied, feeling his own heart break along with her. "I swear to you, I was only going to ask you to continue to serve in your capacity as a captain."

She didn't say anything, and in her silence, she conveyed the awful fact that she didn't believe him.

Ulfric left then. He had never been an emotional man, and he knew he could do nothing for her at this point. His time was best served elsewhere. But, throughout the day, he made his staff update him on her status. It was always the same. She wouldn't talk. Mid-afternoon, she had finally given in and taken a shower and dressed, but she wouldn't eat. Wouldn't speak. She wouldn't open the presents or even the cards.

He finally went to see her before he went to bed that night.

"Lucinda," He said, leaning against the doorframe.

The woman was looking out the window, looking much like a ghost. His servants had dressed her in finery, fit for her new, yet unwanted, position. He was pleased with them for doing so, though he wondered that a woman could still wear such fine things and wear such an aura of depression. She didn't reply to him.

It was just as well; he hadn't expected her to. "I know you won't believe me. But I am sorry. I am sorry it happened this way. I can't take it back, or refute it. There are likely already many couriers scrambling all over the landscape to get the news across Skyrim. The only thing I can do is promise to you that I will see to it that whoever has done this will lose his job."

Looking back on it later...he would realize that his promise would be another one of his biggest mistakes.

Because, in the morning, she had disappeared along with a certain member of his staff. The member of his staff was a great loss to him; the man had been a faithful servant for years and years. Even the loss of the man had nothing on the sensation that swept over him when he connected the dots.

"He's taken her," Ulfric said. "By foul play, no doubt. Or perhaps she didn't even fight back. She was so stricken she could barely stand. He's taken her because I was going to fire him. Perhaps he plans to ransom her."

"I doubt it," Galmar said. "If I were him, I'd just kill her to get back at you."

Ulfric buried his head in his hands. "...Give me war," He groaned. "Give me war any day, over this."


	5. Chapter 5: The Princess and the Thief

_If you were a king up there on your throne  
>Would you be wise enough to let me go<br>For this queen you think you own  
>Wants to be a hunter again<br>I want to see the world alone again  
>To take a chance on life again<br>So let me go..._

- "Hunter", Dido

Brynjolf may have seemed cheerful to everyone, but he was more worried than he would admit about the guild being so close to collapse.

He looked up at the horizon, noticing that the sun was starting to set. Usually he would stay in this rented market stall until it was completely dark, pushing his 'potions'- little more than water mixed with whatever was cheapest at the time-, but today he just felt defeated. He'd only sold two. Usually he was able to charm more people into buying the stuff. His luck just wasn't what it used to be.

So he closed up early and headed down into the Flagon, planning to get the largest cup of mead he could. He'd drink it all, and try to rebuild his strength and hope for better luck tomorrow.

However, no matter how bad a state the guild was in, he would have _never_ agreed to what he was about to discover. That is, if Mercer had bothered asking him.

"Brynjolf."

Brynjolf stopped, hearing his friend call out to him. He looked down at the chubby, balding Breton, and grinned tiredly. "Delvin," He acknowledged, though he could tell immediately that something was amiss. "...What's the matter?"

"...Get you a pint. You're going to need it."

Brynjolf was confused at the statement, but grabbed himself a pint as bid, and sat next to the man. It wasn't like he hadn't been planning to drink, anyway. "What's this, then?"

"Mercer's doing a ransom."

"A ransom? Of someone's property?"

"No," Delvin said, "Of a girl."

Brynjolf stared at Delvin for a minute, then opened his mead and took a long drink. "I'm sorry," He said, after he finally put it down. "I must have heard you wrong."

"No. Ya didn't. She's in one of the cages out back."

Brynjolf took another drink of mead- an automatic gesture. He didn't swallow, couldn't; instead, he let the mead sit in his mouth and sour.

"I know we're in a bad way down 'ere," Delvin said, "But, this ain't right. Ain't no one's 'appy about it. And from the look you're givin me, I know you didn't agree to it, either."

Brynjolf finally swallowed, though it felt like he were forcing rocks down his throat instead of mead. "...Who...is she?" He finally asked.

"...Finish your mead."

Brynjolf downed the rest of it without hesitation.

"That lady's that he done kidnapped, is the one that just agreed to marry Ulfric Stormcloak a couple weeks back."

Brynjolf, if he had not already swallowed, would have spit his mead everywhere. "You're KIDDING," he yelled, and people turned to look at him. "Has Mercer gone mad? This is Stormcloak territory! Ulfric will kill all of us!"

"Aye," Delvin said morosely. "I'm well into the drink meself. Mercer won't listen to anyone."

Brynjolf stood up abruptly, knocking over his chair. "He'll listen to me. I know it. He has to. He has to realize what folly this is."

"I hope so," Delvin said, and returned to his drink.

Brynjolf was absolutely livid. As he walked towards the cistern, he did his best to calm down. He was an easy going guy, and not much bothered him; but this? This was an affront to their very highest priority rule as thieves. It didn't matter that they weren't killing her; this was _kidnapping!_ Of a _person._ This wasn't theft of property or even a shill job. In the back of his mind, he realized that he wouldn't be so mad, except for one very important fact.

Ulfric's woman would fetch a higher price with the Imperial Army, who had more resources and more money, than Ulfric did. And likely, that was exactly what Mercer was planning. Sell her to the Imperial Army. And what would the Imperials do? Kill her! Mercer may as well have brought the blade to the woman's throat himself! What the outside world did was their business, and whether the girl would die or not was none of his concern – _except_ for the fact that it was his organization, his lifeblood, that was playing a hand in her death.

That went against everything he believed in. Not only that, but if Ulfric found out...Gods. He didn't even want to think about it. The man's rage was legendary.

"Mercer!" Brynjolf flung open the door to the cistern and strode across the room faster than he had meant to. Sensing the incoming conflict, the few thieves occupying the room scattered, not wanting to get caught in the crossfire.

Mercer Fray looked up from what looked like a detailed plan. "What?" He snapped. "I'm busy."

"Not anymore!" Brynjolf declared, stopping just short of his desk. "What are you _thinking?_"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mercer said, his tone snide.

"The hell you don't! You're ransoming a woman? Not just any woman- _Ulfric_'s woman!"

"Ah, yes. That. Yes, she was a pain in the ass. But I managed to subdue her eventually."

"That's not what I'm talking about! Do you have any idea what kind of danger you've just put us in?" Brynjolf is breathing heavily now, the alcohol only helping to fuel his temper, almost beside himself. It would be the gallows for all of them. They'd be killed, and he would never be able to see the guild restored to its full glory.

"We're thieves. We _deal_ in danger. You know that, Brynjolf. And with the way things have been going here, we need this money. Badly."

"So, what," Brynjolf asked incredulously, "You broke into the palace and stole his woman? This is your grand plan for getting the guild back to what it was?"

"No, actually, she was sold to me."

"Sold...?" Brynjolf could hardly believe his ears, "What are we, a trafficking ring now?"

"Apparently the Jarl was planning to dismiss his steward...a just reward for years and years of faithful service, no? So the steward decided to capitalize on the opportunity and steal the bitch. He sold her to me at a _fraction_ of the price the Empire would pay for her bounty alone."

So, he had been right. "The Empire will kill her, Mercer!"

"What do I care?"

"The thieves' guild doesn't murder!" Brynjolf slammed his hands on Mercer's desk, causing the quills, ink wells, and other miscellaneous tools to shake.

Brynjolf was getting close to Mercer's face now, and Mercer straightened up, putting more distance between them. "Brynjolf," Mercer said cooly, not an inch of fear, anger, or regret in his voice, "What the Empire does with her is no concern of ours. It's not as though we've killed her ourselves."

"It's the same thing! She would have been alive and well, and _married_, had we not interfered!"

"That's her problem," Mercer said cooly. "All I did was realize the potential opportunity, and take it."

Brynjolf stared at Mercer, starting to doubt everything he'd ever believed about him. This was unjust, it was wrong, it was completely against everything they'd ever done. Not only that, but, "You've put all of us in danger, Mercer. If Ulfric finds out, we are headed for public execution, without doubt. Every single one of us."

"And he won't find out unless someone _tells_ him, now will he?" Mercer asked smugly- the look on his face resembled a dog that had just gotten a treat. He knew he was winning. "And I wonder who would do that- tell Ulfric we've captured his woman? He'd kill us all. You're right, Brynjolf."

Brynjolf bared his teeth and snarled. "You..."

"So you realize now, we don't really have a choice. After all...she's here. She's seen us, and knows us. Or if someone were to get...ambitious, and free her...she'd go running straight back to her _fiance_ and get us all killed. So. If you'll excuse me. I'm working on the details of our fine, prosperous agreement with the Empire."

Brynjolf had always been laid-back. But in that moment, more than anything, he wanted to punch this man in the face. And it was, indeed, 'This man.' "...Who are you," He manages, the rage choking him, "And what have you done with our guild leader?"

Mercer rolled his eyes. "Desperate times, desperate measures." And he would say nothing more; returning back to his papers.

Brynjolf- realizing that even if he had anything left to say, it wouldn't have any effect- turned and stormed out. He didn't know where he was going, at first, but when he finally paid attention...he found himself in the back of the ratway, where the cages were.

He felt his heart sinking. The cages. Delvin said the woman would be here.

He almost wanted to turn and leave. He didn't want to face this person, knowing she would die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. Gods, he was just a thief! He didn't sign up for this. There was a huge different between stealing a few coins out of a noble's purse...or a family heirloom...or even doing a shill job. This was murder, plain and simple; their jobs usually involved inanimate objects. And to be honest, the recipients of a shill job generally deserved it. And they got out of jail soon enough, anyway.

But, there was a part of him, that was...insatiably curious. Ulfric had never taken a wife until now. Who could he have chosen? What would she look like? How would she act? How old was she?

It was these questions- and, something else, that he couldn't quite place- that urged him to wander the cages, as he did, peering in.

And then he saw hair that looked like fire. Bright red, thick, long, curly, untamed...the woman lay, unconscious and slightly bruised, towards the back of one of the end cages. Brynjolf stood there and stared at her. His heart almost broke at the sight of her, and the knowledge of her impending death.

_Gods,_ he thought, _She's even younger than I am._

She was a curvy thing, and that right away gave away the fact that she wasn't a Nord. She was a Breton. He could appreciate that, and admire it; it was almost exotic, given Nord women- unless they were nobles or otherwise prosperous – were generally muscular and tall. This girl was neither. She was a beautiful young thing, with a delicate face and a body more fit to bear children than to wage a war. She was absolutely nothing he had expected her to be. What of her personality? What was she like?

"So," Brynjolf remarked softly, "That's why Ulfric wanted you."

But what he hadn't realized...was that she was awake. Her eyes slowly opened, and her eyes- Gods, what a green- the color of emeralds, or a mossy stream- looked right back into his. And the look- the fire, anger, hatred, and contempt that she conveyed with a simple glance...

It was so much that he found himself stumbling back a little. "Whoa, lass," He muttered. "...I'm not your enemy."

The girl said nothing. She simply stared at him.

"...Look," He said, feeling nervous. This girl knew his face, now. Should she escape, he'd never be able to hide from anyone, once the bounty sketches of him got out. "I didn't want this. None of us did. Mercer did it behind our backs. But if I let you out...you'd rat us out. I'm sorry. There's nothing I can do." He hated this: he felt helpless. And under the power of that gaze- those eyes, that seemed to hold the entire world's worth of anger within them- he felt himself wilting. He couldn't look at her any longer, and he turned his back.

The girl said nothing, and the silence was stifling.

"...I'll bring you whatever you want. Tell me. Anything." Maybe, maybe when she escaped...she'd remember his kindness.

There was a pause, and then...she only spoke three words. "Journal and quill."

If he had to place it, he would have said her voice was a rich alto; but it was so hard to tell from three emotionless, passive words. "You got it, lass," He muttered, and left to retrieve her those things. Only two things? She wanted to keep a journal? Fine, but she'd get bored quickly. He'd bring her a couple of extra things, too. Meat. Mead. Maybe a book or two. No, he couldn't do anything to stop her fate. But at least he could keep her happy until she escaped.

That was when it hit him that he'd been wishing for her to escape. A stupid thing, really. She'd have them all killed. The only responsible thing to do, now- the only utilitarian desire- was wish for her deliverance to the Empire and immediate, painless death. But no matter how much he told himself that. No matter how much he pushed it down. No matter how many times he lied to himself about it...

….Deep down, he wanted her to escape.

Theoretically, the guild was supposed to be taking shifts guarding her. She'd been a captain in the Stormcloak army; she was crafty, and might easily outwit a tired thief. But Brynjolf found himself staying longer than he should have, just...listening.

He'd somehow gotten the foresight to get a flute. It was a small, cheap thing, easily pilfered. He had sort of pegged her for the kind of person that liked music, for some reason. And he'd been right. She had a system, now. She'd write in her journal for a few hours, then, in the afternoons, she would play the flute he had brought her.

Every time he had seen a flute...he had thought nothing of it. Just a piece of wood, no real value; not worth taking. But this girl in this cage- he realized, belatedly, that he did not even know her name – could turn that piece of wood into an _instrument_, a conduit of beautiful melody.

"Where'd you learn to play, lass?"

This, too, was a routine; he'd ask questions that she never answered. It irked him, really. She was such a fascinating thing. Like a caged bird, almost. Unable to fly, yet...still with enough spirit to make music.

That was their routine for the first week. The second week, he got an idea.

"My name's Brynjolf," He told her, as he was first taking his post, that day: his usual position, back against the wall by the cell. He didn't look at her if he didn't have to; it just made both of them uncomfortable. "I don't really have much of a past to tell. I'm not a captain of an army, I'm not engaged to our future High King. I'm just a simple thief, though I do like to tell myself on occasion that I have honor."

And then...she finally responded.

"I am Gaella," She said. "...Fire-Hammer. I am what you see before you."

Brynjolf did turn around to look at her at those words- the first time he had in a while. "...What I see before me?"

She meets his eyes, that green gaze steady, piercing. "Some men see only beauty," She says, "Others...see something different." And she was quiet, offering no further elaboration.

Brynjolf smirked then, understanding. To convey so much meaning, in so few words; and yet, at the same time, for that meaning to be so simple, and common. "Aye, you are beautiful, lass," He said, "But you're smart, too. And a musician."

She nodded simply, then turned her head away from him, looking at the wall.

"What...that's all the conversation I get?"

There was no answer.

Brynjolf sighed, and leaned back against the wall, searching his mind for the next exchange. It didn't come as readily as he would have thought, and soon enough, he heard her pick up that flute and play – and he forgot about everything else but the melody.

The next day, though, he had it, and as he laid against the wall in his normal position, he said,

"The first thing I ever stole was a sweet roll. I was a young lad, barely 8. I just knew that I saw it, and wanted it. I never felt bad for taking it, even when my parents caught me and disciplined me. I'd experienced what it was like to just take what I wanted. I've been hooked, ever since."

There was a pause...

"The first thing I ever wrote was my name. I've been hooked, ever since."

Brynjolf, again, couldn't help but steal a glance at her. What a fascinating response.

And so it went, like this; he started the discussion, she traded back one bit of information for every piece given. It went like that for the next week.

"My favorite color is red."

"My favorite color is purple."

"My favorite city is Riften, because it will always be my home."

"My favorite city is Daggerfall, because it is full of fools."

He raised his eyebrow, and turned to ask, "And you like fools do you?" He hadn't expected a response to that, but he got one anyway, and it was even more interesting than her original statement:

"Fools like me."

He grinned at that, and thought, "...Maybe we're not so different, lass."

But to that, he didn't get a reply.

"I am fond of the sunshine, directly after a blizzard."

"I am fond of the rain, in almost any circumstance."

"There's nothing better than a hot mead on a cold day."

"There's nothing better than the scent of flowers under the moonlight."

"Bit of a romantic, are we?"

Silence.

"My favorite book is Kolb and the Dragon." That was a little personal, but...he felt like it was a worthy trade. Every Nord boy read that book. It was a classic. Surely it wasn't that weird that he was still fond of it as a grown man. ...Was it?

"My favorite book...is any book."

So he supposed, in a way, she agreed with him about it. He relaxed, feeling as though he was able to place a little trust in Gaella.

"My dream is to be rich beyond my wildest imagination."

"...My dream..."

Brynjolf couldn't keep himself from turning around, and meeting her eyes, when she hesitated. She'd been honest, so far. Hopefully...she wasn't planning on lying now.

Her eyes meet his with the same breathtaking intensity as always. "...My dream...is to be free."

That floored him. It didn't make any sense. Freedom? Her dream was freedom, as the future High Queen?

Oh. Maybe she meant from this cage. "I'm working on it, lass," He said, and laid back against the wall.

"Liar," She called out softly.

"...Aye," Brynjolf admitted, begrudgingly. "...Truth is, lass: you're fascinating. I don't want to let you go just yet."

Gaella felt a blush rise to her cheeks, and she tried to hurriedly rub it away. She set her lip, obstinately, and tried to ignore the thoughts racing across her mind. This...fascinating, handsome, honorable thief, found her...not beautiful. Not strong. But fascinating.

"...That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a very long time," She said softly.

Brynjolf waves a hand. "Don't be charmed, now. I'm a thief, but I'm not in the business of stealing other men's fiances. Too dangerous."

Brynjolf heard her growling softly, and winced.

"You're not my type," She snapped, defensively.

"You're right," He said, though he felt a little sad saying it, "Why would you need another man when you've got the High King?"

There was silence, then. And, much to Brynjolf's detriment...she didn't play her flute that night.

"I love the smell of leather."

"I love the smell of freshly cooked venison."

"I am most skilled with daggers."

"I am most skilled with magic."

Well, that was interesting. Not only a Breton, but also a mage. And Ulfric wanted her? This situation just became weirder and weirder.

Which begged the question he'd always wanted to ask her, but never had the courage to. He couldn't help it from slipping from his lips, just then; it was like trying to keep your grip on a freshly washed floor when you were wearing only socks. You could feel yourself slipping, but there was no way to stop it.

"Why did you agree to marry Ulfric?" He turned completely to face her then, standing in front of the cage- fists clenched in anticipation. He awaited her silence, the thing about her he was most familiar with...what he didn't anticipate, however, was the way she drew in on herself almost subconsciously. And the most shocking thing of all...was her answer.

"I didn't," She said, and her voice sounded broken. "I said no."

A wave of realization crashed over him. "...No?" He repeated, breathlessly, and put his hands on the bars, then, wishing he could get closer. Wished he could hear her better- so he could trust his ears/ "You said no? But...the news. The couriers sent to all of the Jarls. The..."

"The Steward that kidnapped me is the one who heard me say no. His loyalty was so great to Ulfric that he made it impossible for me to decline. All the holds think we are to wed."

"Why is it impossible?" Brynjolf asked, completely baffled. Surely, if she hadn't said yes in the first place, she could just tell everyone it was the Steward who lied; or, "Just tell everyone you changed your mind."

She looked up to meet him then, and smiled a sad smile. "What kind of woman can't keep a promise to her High King?...the people would call for my execution."

As much as Brynjolf wanted to dispute her, he knew she was right. There were sick people out there with nothing better to do than twist stories, make up lies, and ruin other people's lives: most commonly, they were known as politicians. "He wouldn't kill you, would he?"

"No, but he would lose faith from his people. When Ulfric wins, he needs everyone to believe in him. He can't afford having instability and uncertainty. If too many people disagree with his decisions, it could spark another civil war. More blood. More pain. More death."

"That's his problem...!" Brynjolf was even more confused now, and he hadn't even realized that that was possible. "Why don't you do what you want to do, and let Ulfric worry about Ulfric?"

Gaella tore her gaze away from Brynjolf, and placed it upon the wall, instead. "I care about him, thief," She murmurs. "I don't want to marry him, but I care about him. I owe him my life."

"Your life?...Don't you think you've already paid him back for that by rising through the ranks in his army? I heard that they took Whiterun and Markarth while you were serving."

"He gave me a reason to live when I had none," She said, "And for that, I will always be grateful. If I have the ability to spare him harm, I will."

"But...you don't want to marry him."

"No."

Brynjolf looked at the girl then- _really_ looked at her. She was so young, but she looked much like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. He suspected that if he had met her under normal circumstances, he would have assumed she was much older than she actually was. This girl...was willing to marry a man she did not love, to set foot into a life she didn't have an interest in...she was willing to kill off her own dreams...for the sake of doing the right thing. For _someone else._

"...Who..._are_ you?" He asked. "Where in Oblivion did you come from?"

There was a pause, before she replied, "I am the fairy tale princess without a prince; I am the lost and forsaken maiden for whom no knight ever came. I do what is right because no one else can be expected to."

"That's pretty and all, but it doesn't actually answer my question."

She smirks, almost seeming to be amused. And no matter how much he prodded her with questions after that, she would no longer speak.

...It was then that he realized that he had to help her.

"I'll make you a deal," He finally said, the next day. "I'll get you out of here, if you swear not to come after us. Don't tell your fiance. If you even go back to him. What you do once I get you out of Riften is completely up to you."

She looked up at him, disbelief shining on her face like a beacon.

"Yes, I'm serious, lass. I've got something to do today, but tomorrow. I'll come for you. _If_ you agree to my terms."

She nodded once, quickly.

"Good. Then, see you tomorrow." Brynjolf smiled at her then, a true, genuine smile. He felt good; he had finally figured out a way to make everyone a winner. He'd get the girl out of here and onto a life she actually wanted, and not only that, he'd keep the guild safe. He saw the blush come across the girl's cheeks, and couldn't help but derive satisfaction from that, too. He waved, and then walked out to complete his task for that day.

Little had he known...that Mercer Frey had long ago grown suspicious of him. Mercer stepped from the shadows several minutes later, looking down at the red-haired woman, caged before him. He had _not_ come this far, in all of his plans, to be thwarted now. No. He would get rid of this girl, and then he would kill Brynjolf for his defiance.

He drew the cage key out of his pocket, and said, "Good news, Princess. Brynjolf told me of his proposal, and I've agreed to it. Sincerest apologies for all this, but surely, you understand. Being a thief is only one step under being a bounty hunter, after all." He unlocked the cage door. "But, as Brynjolf said. It's better to just let you go now. And really..."

He watched the girl stand up, shakily, leaving her journal and flute behind her. He watched the girl walking towards him, and put his hand on his sword, just in case...

"...And really, isn't this just the right thing to do?"

She didn't seem like she would attack him, and so he tentatively moved his hand off the hilt of his sword.

When she was close enough, he stepped forward and covered her mouth. He took his other hand, placed it on the side of her head, and slammed her head against the wall, knocking her out so swiftly she didn't have time to realize what was happening.

"...After all. There are places I can pawn you quicker, and for better price than the Empire's been offering me."

Mercer Frey considered himself a musician of words. And so when Brynjolf couldn't find his precious little caged bird, Mercer blamed it on Karliah.

"I told you. She's a bitch, but she's a damn _good_ bitch. What better way to get revenge for us thwarting her plan with Maven than to get rid of our latest, and most profitable, business transaction? Luckily for you, I know where she is. If we leave now, we might even be able to catch the Princess with her, before Karliah kills the poor girl."

Yes, indeed. A musician of words. And this entire performance, starting from the moment he had decided to kill Gallus, was his symphony.

Karliah took Brynjolf out with an arrow- just as he had known she would (that was the _real_ reason, of course, that he'd made Brynjolf go first). And, she had fled when he'd come to kill her, just as he thought she might. Fickle, but predictable, bitch.

He decided to make sure that Brynjolf was really dead. Even though he certainly looked as such, and wasn't moving, it would be better to err on the side of _safety_. Mercer approached him.

Good thing he checked. "Only paralyzed?" He asked with contempt- he could still see Brynjolf's eyes moving. "Better fix that. Oh, _poor _Brynjolf. You're going to die here, after all that effort, and you didn't even get to save the Princess. Sorry! Actually...no. I'm really not."

The look of realization, and unfathomable hatred in Brynjolf's eyes, was delicious.

Mercer savored it a moment, before delivering the killing blow and leaving him there to die.

Yes. His symphony. And the grand finale, would be the moment in which he would _finally_ kill Karliah.


	6. Chapter 6: The Princess and the Bandits

**A/N:** Sorry for the short chapter. Next one will be much longer, I promise. :)

_I exist here on an acre of nature,  
>In the diminutive.<br>But I'll be thinking of you,  
>My favorite hypocrite.<br>Of your last words to me I am thinking,  
>And of the depth of your eyes...<em>

- "This, My Porcelain Life," Rasputina

Gaella was _really_ getting tired of this 'being kidnapped' thing; that was her first thought when she was unceremoniously dropped onto the ground, and jarred back into consciousness.

"...It is! It's the Jarl's missing fiancee! The woman from the posters!"

"That's right," said Mercer Frey, "Now pay up."

….In that moment, she decided that Mercer Frey would not live much longer.

Gaella's eyes were still closed, and she had a colossal headache. She heard the jingling of coins, before some brave soul asked,

"...Why aren't _you_ selling her to the Imperial army, again?"

"It's none of your business." The sound of footsteps retreating away.

Gaella opened her eyes as best she could, to take in which way Mercer Frey went. She would be following him as soon as she was able. She felt rope around her wrists- rope? Really? What a stupid man. Or maybe he just didn't care enough to ensure the safety of...whoever it was he'd sold her to.

"She sure is pretty. Even with her face all scratched up. Just look at those tits."

...Bandits. She could tell by the way they talked. _Stupid_ bandits, really. How would they be able to sell her to the Imperial Army without being arrested on murder charges? And how many were there? She opened her eyes fully and looked up at her current targets. Six. ...Well, that was a bit much.

"Awww. She's awake! You sleep good, Princess?" One of the bandits nudged her in the ribs with the toe of his boot. He smelled gods-awful, like he hadn't bathed in weeks. He probably hadn't. "Don't worry. We're gonna take _wonderful_ care of you before selling you to the Imperials.

"Okay," She murmured. "But will you at least untie my hands?"

The bandits looked between each other and laughed.

Gaella heaved a great sigh. "...Look at me, and look at you," She said matter-of-factly, sitting up very slowly. "Do I look like I have the strength to take on all six of you? Or even one of you? Come now...surely not."

"...Well..." Their apparent leader hesitated. "Isn't you a captain in the Stormcloaks?"

Impeccable speech, this one. "If I was, why would Ulfric remove such a valuable soldier from his army and take her, instead, to his bed? It's counter-productive. No. I'm just a woman."

The leader begrudgingly undid her bindings. In truth, Gaella could have burned the bindings off easily, but...truth be told, she enjoyed toying with idiots. "Oh, what's to become of me?" She asked with a dramatic sigh, placing her hand on her forehead in true 'perish-the-thought!' form.

"We're about to have some fun with you..then we'll be taking you to the Imperial camp not too far from here."

"Well, alright," Gaella said, standing. It was truly hard to keep from bursting into laughter at the baffled looks on the bandits' faces. Clearly, this was not the behavior they were used to from their 'victims.' And they were all men, of course; the stereotypical swarthy Nord types, all muscle, no brain. She belatedly wondered if they were too stupid to get a better job than killing people and stealing their things.

She surveyed the landscape for something she could use. Ah! There, in the distance! There was a mammoth camp. And, generally, where there were mammoths...there were giants. If she could lure these fools into the giants' camp, the situation would take care of itself. Trying to take out six bandits at close-range was not necessarily a good idea. True, she could wrap herself in a flame cloak, but there were some of them with bows- and she was wearing her green dress from the palace, still. It was thin, torn, stained, and filthy, and even if it had been in perfect condition, it would still _not_ have saved her from arrows.

"What're you lookin' at, Princess?" The bandit leader grabbed her face painfully, digging his dirty nails in, and turned her back to look at him. "Ain't no one around here to hear you scream, if that's what you're lookin' for..."

There! She saw, over his shoulder, by the chest-where, presumably, they laid their things- there was a rather large coin purse. Their last victims must have been wealthy- and Mercer's timing must have been exactly in her favor. If he had waited even a few minutes longer to drop her here, the coin purse would have been stowed away, and this situation could have gone off much worse than a few simple bruises on her chin.

"Look at me, bitch!"

She brought her eyes back to his- looked deep into the ugly, shit-colored irises.

"You're not even cowering? ...No matter. You'll cower when we get started here."

"...Will you at least let me remove my own dress?"

"Is this some kind of trick?" The bandit's grip tightened painfully, drawing blood from his nails.

"What kind of a question is that? I love this dress. Even as beat up as it is, I'd prefer it to be in this condition when I go to meet the Imperials, and go to..." ...Where did Nords go? Right!

"Sovngarde, rather than worse."

"Fine. But no tricks, bitch!" The bandit leader finally let go of her face, and she rubbed her chin softly. What was it with Nord men and hurting her face? Was hitting her somewhere else not masculine enough, or something?

She reached to the back of her dress, pretending to go for the zipper. But instead...she murmured a conjuration softly to herself, and, from her outstretched, obscured palm, conjured a spectral wolf.

_Steal the coin purse by the chest. Lead them to the mammoths: straight forward, my friend._

The spirit beast obeyed, bounding out from behind her.

"Hey! What in the..."

The wolf grabbed the coin purse in its spectral teeth and took off, quick as lightning. The bandits immediately grabbed their weapons and took off after it, completely forgetting about their current quarry in pursuit of the spectral beast and their very last bit of gold.

Gaella smirked. Too easy.

The bandits were quickly gaining on the beast, and she worried that the wolf would fade or be banished by the bandits' arrows before it reached the intended destination. Her specialty lay in fire, not conjuration, and her wolf would not last very long.

She looked around the camp and grabbed a shield, struggling with the weight. If they were going to come back, she would use this to try and block any arrows and send spells at them long-distance. She wasn't stupid enough to think she could outrun them. She didn't know this area, or where they were...oh, who was she kidding.

She wanted them to die. And if the giants didn't kill the bandits, she would.

Gaella needn't have worried, however. The wolf did finally disappear at the very edge of the camp- but the loud yelp it let out alerted the giants, who were _not_ happy about a bunch of ugly bandits rushing their camp.

Gaella dropped the shield, relieved both to not have to hold the heavy thing anymore. She grinned wickedly, happy have something funny to watch to lighten her spirits. "Yessss...!"

The giants – of which there were two – quickly approached the bandits. The bandits started yelling and scrambled over each other in a mad dash to get away from their impending deaths. But every one step of a giant was ten steps of a man, and so the bandits all met a very swift and hilarious death, as the giants flattened them as though they were nothing more than burnt sweetrolls.

"Thank you," Gaella said softly. "If I could come up there and hug you, I would." She bowed her head in reverence to the giants. In truth, she'd always wanted to sit down and have a conversation with one, but she knew that now was not the right place or time.

She looked around the now-abandoned camp. Six tents, a roaring fire, and some miscellaneous weapons. What else did they have here? She strode forward, lifting the hem of her dress, and knelt in front of the chest. It was locked. Of course. She studied it- flicking it a few times, pressing her ear to the metal. It wasn't a complicated lock, and she should be able to break it fairly easily, should she find some picks lying around.

She searched through the tents and found more supplies- books, a few potions, some arrows. Spare clothes. Several lockpicks, which she pocketed. A few herbs. All these things were generally useful, but she would have to figure out her plan of action first, before she decided what to bring.

She carefully took a leg of goat off of the cooking spit and sat in front of the fire, eating it slowly. It was plain without any spice- simply salt. But she was starving, and wasn't really picky about her food anymore, anyway.

Gaella chewed, wincing at the pain from her cheeks it caused, and stared into the fire. Assuming the mammoth camp was north, then Mercer had gone southwest. What was he after? Why had he decided to pawn her off on some idiot bandits, instead of taking her straight to the Imperial Army? It was obvious he and Brynjolf were _not_ in agreement about how to proceed with...whatever the plans were. Brynjolf hadn't been anywhere around when Mercer dropped her off, and furthermore, Brynjolf had promised to free her. Mercer hadn't consulted with him, or anyone else, before he'd taken the deal with Ulfric's steward. She had heard faint shouting between the two leaders over the subject, and that had been what had awoken her the day she first met Brynjolf. Mercer had put all of them in danger without any consultation from his officers whatsoever.

Who else had she met while imprisoned? The girl that had undid her binds and slipped her a dagger in case anyone 'tried anything funny', that was Sapphire, a beautiful woman with black hair and melancholy eyes. The fat, bald Breton that she had instantly disliked for some reason...his name was Delvin. There was a rather moody woman named Vex, who was also beautiful, in a dark way. Vex hadn't said a thing to her, but she didn't have to. She could tell the woman completely disapproved of the situation and wasn't happy to be there.

Almost all of them, when they either thought she wasn't listening, or didn't care, would mutter among themselves and wonder where the honor of the thieves' guild had gone.

A group of thieves with honor...but with the honorless Mercer as a leader. Her nose turned up at the thought. She hated everything about Mercer, down to his very smell, the vapid stench of selfishness, of which she'd forced to partake of when he was lugging her around like a sack of potatoes. It clung to her like a mist when she was inches from awareness.

_Tomorrow, lass, I'll come for you. I'll get you out of Riften, so long as you promise not to bring back any soldiers on us. Deal?_

Oh, that red-haired man...his voice came to her even now, through the snow.

Was Brynjolf okay? She ran her fingers through her hair and sighed, tossing the meat bone into the fire (she was hungrier than she'd thought, and consumed every last piece of meat upon it). She had no way of knowing where Brynjolf was now. But Mercer couldn't have gotten too far. If she followed Mercer, and killed him, she'd be able to stop him before he brought any more harm onto the guild. A person that selfish...who knew what he was capable of?

With that, she stood, and went to pick the lock on the chest. She vaguely remembered some mutterings from Mercer as she had floated in and out of consciousness, something about plans, falmer eyes, and fools.

...Plans. Falmer eyes. Fools.

Was he planning to go into a dwarven ruin? Despite herself, she grew excited as the possibility of entering another one. She had always been fascinated with the dwarves; had even done some research in her time in Skyrim, and become friends with the foremost export on Dwemer lore: Calcemo, in Markarth.

_Think, Lucy, think. Did Calcemo ever mention anything about falmer eyes? The falmer are blind. Could there be a small group that still has eyes? No...the falmer were betrayed by the dwemer and lost their sight long ago. They can't possibly have...wait...!_

Calcemo had spoken of one of the only true treasures that were left from back when the falmer had still been "Snow Elves:" The only known visual representation left of a Snow Elf, a giant statue. Within its eye sockets, it contained giant, flawlessly cut gems for eyes. Gems that were pricelessly valuable, and, honestly, an anomaly. They were said to be cut with impossible precision for the time in which they were made.

_So _that's_ where he's going. Irkngthand._

Gaella finally managed to open the chest. There should have been gold in there, but there was absolutely none; she assumed it was because Mercer had taken all but the very last coin purse they had in exchange for her.

No matter. That gold would belong to her when she killed Mercer.

Instead, there was armor, quite a bit of armor, and a few more potions. She pulled out a few potions, and then hesitated at the remaining contents. There was only heavy and studded armor; she had never worn anything but cloth. Could she move in this? She knew she was young- even if she didn't know her exact age- and had the strength that came with youth, but undoubtedly, the weight would slow her down. However, if she was going to be in a giant cave full of blood-thirsty mutants, wouldn't it be better to have something more protective than a shredded cloth gown?

She sighed, and decided to pull out and don the studded armor. It stunk, it was heavy, and it felt grimy against her skin. But some protection was better than no protection, and she had to admit that it was far better defense against the cold than the thin fabric of her gown had been.

With that, she headed in the direction of Mercer, making a mental note of where the camp had been.


	7. Chapter 7: The Betrayer and The Betrayed

**A/N: **Sorry about slower postings...school just started this week, and I can't be up as late as I normally am. Thanks for all the kind words of encouragement and the reviews. :)

_Something in your eyes was so inviting,  
>Something in your smile was so exciting,<br>Something in my heart,  
>Told me I must have you. <em>

"Strangers in the Night," Frank Sinatra

Under usual circumstances, Brynjolf wouldn't mind waking up to a woman.

But given that he felt like he'd just been sat on by a mammoth, he would have preferred a different sight. Just this once. You know...like maybe a healer...or...

_Gaella._

The thought made him groan. Well...that and the _intense pain_ radiating from the stab and arrow wounds he now owned.

"Don't try to move," The woman- a dark elf- said, lightly pressing down on his shoulders to keep him down. "I've only just stopped the bleeding. I've given you something for the pain, it should kick in at any minute."

"Where am I?..."

"You're on top of Snow Veil Sanctum."

That was when it dawned on him. "You shot me!" He shouted, and immediately regretted it, as a fresh wave of pain crashed over him due to the exertion. He groaned in pain.

"Yes, and you ought to be thanking me. If I hadn't shot you with that poisoned arrow, you would have bled out, after Mercer cut you. And besides, that poison was never meant to kill, only paralyze. I just wanted to get you out of the way so I could take Mercer."

_Mercer... _"I can't...believe it. After all these years...that rat bastard! I'll kill him!"

"You can't just rush into the guild and stab him. You don't have any proof, yet. You would turn everyone against you."

He took a long, hard look at the woman- Karliah. "Did you kill Gallus?" Brynjolf asked bluntly.

"No. I would never. Mercer did."

Feeling the pain subsiding, he finally sat up. "He killed Gallus, set you up, killed the Princess, and tried to kill me. You better have a good plan, lass, because otherwise I'll fly into the Flagon myself and end him, consequences be damned."

"Princess?...No, nevermind. Yes, I do have a plan." Karliah handed him a journal. "This is Gallus' journal. If we get it translated, I suspect it has all the proof you need..."

All the steps...they were too long, and too much, for him to bother with were the circumstances different. But deep within him burned an overwhelming hatred for Mercer. He didn't just want Mercer dead, he wanted Mercer to die as painfully, and as shamefully, as possible, exposed to all as the traitor he was. He grit his teeth and endured, going through all the motions to translate this journal, for some reason written in a language no one spoke any longer.

And when it was translated, and he presented it to the guild, showing Mercer as the traitor he was, and asked for Gaella...they replied that she had mysteriously disappeared out of the cell he had kept her in.

Brynjolf felt hollow upon hearing it. He hadn't kept his word to her. He'd failed. Mercer had just stolen the girl's life, _and_ his honor, as well. _That_ was why his thoughts had kept returning to her...he'd promised her something. The way she'd looked at him with that perfect face, and those melancholy eyes; that he had been able to see happiness in them, as he made that promise. Even for a second.

Ruined.

And when they'd discovered that Mercer had robbed them all blind; taken the entire vault, even the guild's plans, Brynjolf was nearly beside himself. He had no idea how he was still able to give orders. How in the hell he managed to collaborate and figure out where Mercer was headed, he didn't know. His body, and brain, it seemed, were both running on autopilot, while his true self – his soul - subsisted only on the flames of rage.

He supposed, later...that it was that rage that led him to take that pact with Nocturnal. He could feel his abilities increase, he felt more...powerful. More confident. Even still, he couldn't shake the feeling that he'd sold his soul; nor the knowledge that he didn't care.

He couldn't even name whatever it was Mercer was after, as he entered the ancient ruins. He couldn't remember the name of this place, or why it was important. He was focused, calm, at one with his anger. One of his best gifts was the ability to focus completely on one thing, blocking out everything else. And right now, he utilized that gift, to this best of his ability.

_Revenge._

Revenge was what kept him focused and safe as they descended the dangerous depths of the ruin. Revenge was what kept his mind clear. It was all that mattered to him, then. He would have his revenge, and nothing would stop him until then.

And when they finally reached that chamber, and he saw his target, chipping away at a massive statue, he readied a throwing knife, judging the distance it would take to land. Then, the ground shook, and he had to force himself to look up and away from Mercer...

….Just in time to see a boulder headed towards him.

And he thought, _Damn...so close._ It was too fast, too near him to dodge. The entrance was caving in; clearly Mercer had expected them, and rigged this room to collapse.

"_Wuld Nah Kest!" _The words echoed along the cavern, shaking the very ground with their power.

The sensation of flight- he was airborne, momentarily; something...or someone...warm and soft, pressed against him. He landed on his back, with said person on top of him, straddling him at the hips- did she do that on purpose?- wondering...what in the name of the Gods just happened? And...

He squinted at the woman straddling him, though he was dazed. She was wearing some hideous studded armor that was far too big on her, and it looked...wrong. But underneath, he could see her clear, tanned, soft skin...she wore no helmet, and even if she had, that massive, bright mane would have fought against it for sure.

"Gaella..." He whispered, almost unable to believe it. As he often found himself doing in awkward situations, in an effort to diffuse the tension, he said, "...You know, we should really try this again, but under different circumstances..."

Gaella looked back at him and scowled softly, putting a finger to her lips to signal him to be silent.

"Are you kidding me?" Mercer called out, in apparent frustration.

Brynjolf was a little bit more disappointed than the situation called for when she got off of him. His disappointment quickly turned to worry when he realized that she had revealed herself to Mercer, taking the attention off of him. What was she thinking? He nimbly rolled to his feet.

"I thought I'd taken care of you, bitch. And here you come out of the woodwork, when I finally finished off those other two rats? Fine. It's not like I haven't taken care of you before. Only this time, I get to actually _kill_ you."

The girl summoned a flame atronarch then, and sent fireballs at Mercer in tandem with it. Brynjolf was momentarily distracted by the flames, but then he pressed himself into the shadows...he would sneak up on Mercer while he was busy with the girl and lend his aid, assaulting the man from behind. Mercer was smarter than that, though, and managed to parry Brynjolf's dagger at the last moment.

Brynjolf didn't know how long they fought. It seemed like an eternity; a sick dance of blades and fire, where if any one of them took even one misstep, he or she would fall into the abyss of death. Both he and Gaella were wounded by Mercer, but Mercer, even as powerful as he was- even with that daedric artifact he'd stolen from the Twilight Sepulcher – he was still fighting two people at once, who were skilled in the ways they fought.

Eventually, another shout- a weird spell of foreign languages- sent out a wave of power that knocked Mercer to the floor. This time, Brynjolf saw that it had come from the girl, and he made a mental note to ask her about it later. For now, there was only one thing to do. He drew his dagger, and, with all of his might, thrust it into the heart of the betrayer.

"Fuck you, Mercer." He muttered, and withdrew his dagger, wiping the blood off on Mercer's old clothes. He turned to look then, at this strange creature before him...

"...You...came all this way, lass. Why?"

Gaella met his eyes, then, bruises on her face, bleeding from several gashes on her exposed skin, and said nothing.

Brynjolf started to walk towards her, fully intending to take her into his arms in relief, but there was a strange crash, and the chamber started to fill with water. He looked back to her. "We have to get out of here..."

Gaella rushed past him, going to Mercer's body- hurriedly, she went through his pockets.

Brynjolf covers his face with his palm, and he can't help but laugh. "You're sharing that with me later, lass," He said, and looked around the cavern for a way out. The way they had come was caved in- his heart sunk, thinking of Karliah and how she surely must have been caught in the landslide- and he could see no way out from the level they were at. So he turned his eyes higher, as the water rose. A thought occurred to him..looking over at Gaella. "...How are you going to swim in heavy armor?"

She looked over at him...and smirked a sexy little smirk, that said, _Watch me._

He grinned at that, and looked back up. Up there, near the top of the statue, were some loose boulders. If he could clear those, he could make an opening for both of them to climb into. He could see light coming through the cracks in the boulders. "Alright. I'm going to climb up and try and clear the path. Listen. You be sure to take that armor off if you can't swim in it, and damn any sense of modesty, Princess. Alright? The only thing I really need you to hold onto is a teeny little key that was on his body."

His eyes met hers, and the green somehow managed to smolder, like the embers of a dying fire. She said nothing, her face passive, but after a few precious seconds...she nodded.

He jumped up the ledges and then started to scale the statue. It wasn't easy, even for one as limber and agile as he was. As he struggled to cling to the smooth surface, he couldn't help but cast worried glances every few minutes down at Gaella below, weighted down in that heavy armor and whatever she'd managed to loot off of Mercer's body.

He managed to scale the statue, finally. He started to hack at the boulders with his daggers, loosing them and causing them to fall into the water below. He had to hurry and make the opening larger, then he could assist the girl with her climb up here. After a few minutes, the way was nearly clear; only a small patch of dirt remained. He stopped for a second to rest, panting heavily. A fireball whirled right past his head and exploded, clearing the last of the debris. He shielded himself from the falling dust, and looked down...before breaking out into a grin.

Gaella was no longer wearing the heavy armor; instead, she had stolen Mercer's armor right off of his body and donned it. She was having no trouble staying afloat wearing it, though it was ill fitting; the arms and legs far too long, and tight around her torso and hips.

"Smart girl," He called, "Can you climb up?"

She swam over to the statue- the water was up to its nose, now- and tried to grip it and climb, but she failed: her fingers slipping, she fell back into the water.

Brynjolf had figured as such. She didn't look like the agile type, and she certainly was no thief, or a wood elf with a natural inclination for climbing. He knelt down and held out his hand. "Just wait until the water rises a bit more, then I'll pull you up, lass."

She nodded, and swam as close to his hand as she could. She met his eyes steadily, but still, not a word escaped from her lips. The water did not take long to rise, and she grabbed for his hand. He pulled her up without much trouble, as she braced her feet on the statue to aid her ascent.

When they were both on top of the massive thing, Brynjolf helped to boost the mage up into the opening he had made in the cave ceiling. He then scrambled in after her. He wanted desperately to lay there on the floor and catch his breath, but if that water kept rising...

He looked around, taking in his surroundings. It looked as though they were in some sort of tunnel; the light of the outside shone through an opening at the end of it. Good! And, he noticed, as he turned back to check, the water had stopped rising just below the hole that they had climbed through. He laid back against the wall, then, and slunk down to a sitting position. Closing his eyes, he took a much needed deep breath.

Gaella sat back and watched him- her eyes drifting down to take in all the details of his face. Red hair like hers, though his was a bit darker, straight, and short. High cheekbones, a square jaw. Rough stubble; likely, he hadn't shaved in a few days. Overall...a very handsome man. A weird feeling came over her, and she realized that she was attracted to him- and that realization brought with it...vast fear. She tore her eyes away from his face, though to her detriment, she found herself studying the lines of his body underneath the armor. Even though he wasn't as bulky as a warrior, he certainly...

"Like what you see, lass?"

She jumped and looked away immediately, her face turning red.

"Now, now." Brynjolf opened his eyes slowly, smirking. "There's no shame in it. It's just a look." His tone was gentle, even though it still held the same confident snarkiness. It was almost as though he was trying to comfort her.

For some reason, it worked. Her embarrassment lessened, she looked back at him...and she recognized the look on his face. He was studying her, as though she were a target. As though she were a puzzle, as though...

As though she were a lock he wanted to pick.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

He grinned and held up his hands in a 'peace' gesture. "Are you hurt?"

She shook her head.

"...Come on, princess." He stood up and walked toward her, holding his hand out to help her up. "Let's not play that game anymore."

Gaella looked at his gloved hand. If she took it...if she touched him. She knew Brynjolf's type- he was the "smooth operator" kind, the man at the bar that could get any woman he wanted. Skills he no doubt honed over his life as a thief. Instead, she stood up without taking it, and reminded herself that this man was a playboy, and, handsome or not, she had no business touching him. She turned to face the light and walked away...aware of his eyes on her.

Brynjolf stared at the woman as she walked away, rubbing his chin. He automatically followed after her. She was a challenge, and normally, he _loved_ challenges. But...regardless of whether she had said yes to Ulfric or not, this was his woman. He valued his own hide over a romp in the hay with any woman, even one like this.

But even still...his eyes roamed her body, and he had to wonder why she had stopped talking to him. Even in his admiration of her physicality, he couldn't ignore the force of her personality. It was just as, if not more, striking than her appearance. "...Why did you come back, lass?" He asked softly. "..And how did you escape from the Imperials?"

She looked over her shoulder at him. "...Men like Mercer don't deserve to live," She finally said, "And men with honor don't deserve to die." Then she looked back- forward, towards the light, and kept walking. "And Mercer wasn't smart enough to give me to the Imperials. He dropped me with some fool bandits."

"Fools love you," Brynjolf remembered, in admiration.

…._Ulfric's_, he reminded himself, but in that moment, he so desperately wanted to know her.


	8. Chapter 8: Those Left Behind

**A/N: **I just have to share this with you guys. I asked one of my closest friends, who has been following both of my stories from day one, which guy she was rooting for. "Brynjolf," She said to me, and when I asked why, she responded, "Ulfric already has a bromance with Dead-Bear guy. He doesn't need Gaella like Bryn." Oh, man. I can't stop laughing. 3.

_I carry your image always in my head  
>Folded and yellowed and torn at the edge <em>

_All of these moments are lost in time  
>You're caught in my head like a thorn on a vine<br>To forever torment me and I wonder why  
>Do I wish I'd never known you at all...<em>

"The Ocean", The Bravery

"How will we retake the Pale without Fire-Hammer?"

Ulfric turned himself from the window at the question, looking over to the soldier who had asked it. He studied the man before him, keeping his expression carefully neutral. The soldier was a true Nord: tall, muscular, and fearsome. But in this moment...he looked nervous. He remembered, belatedly, that this person was one of his captains.

"In case you've forgotten, _captain,_" Galmar spat from the corner, "Fire-Hammer was not always in the army. We did just fine before her, and we will continue to press on, with or without."

Ulfric said nothing yet, simply staring at the captain- who softly cringed under the weight of his gaze. How he missed Lucinda in that moment- the way she would look him straight in the eye and insult him, consequences be damned.

Ulfric was very aware of the way people usually reacted around him. He wore his dominance, self-confidence, and stoicism as a cloak wrapped tightly around him. Those three things in conjunction were deadly- and useful. At times, he did not even need to speak, nor change his expression, to express his displeasure. That had truly been why he liked her so much, he thought. Until he really pressed her, she would talk to him just like any other man. It was...incredible. Even Galmar would not speak to him with the kind of backhanded honesty that she would. He liked that her behavior was unpredictable that way.

"But sir," The captain insisted- and Ulfric had to admire him for it- "We made much slower progress without her. Even though she didn't talk, her courage and ferocity in battle...it inspired the men, gave them strength. Mage or not, she is fierce. We need her to win. We are so close..."

"What would you have me do?" Ulfric asked, finally irritated enough to speak. He relished in the look in the man's eyes- fear. Fear and respect.

"...We have to look for her, sir."

"So let me get this straight," Galmar growls, moving forward. "You expect our King to take away hundreds of soldiers from the areas that we have newly secured, in order to look for a single mage, who may or may not be alive? And how far? We do not know if she would even be in Skyrim! She could be on the other side of Tamriel by now!"

The captain finally looked down.

Ulfric pitied him then. "My son," He said, walking forward, and putting his hand on the man's shoulder. "Do you not believe that I, of all people, understand?"

The captain looked up and met his eyes...shamed. "..Of...of course, my lord. Forgive me. I shouldn't have..."

Ulfric nodded and moved his hand. "Consider it forgotten. Fire-Hammer is gone, yes. But that only means that we must work all the harder. Freedom is _never_ truly dependent on one person, even if that person is the Dragonborn."

The captain nodded, looking relieved.

Ulfric was glad for it. Even though he liked the fear and respect he commanded from his people, he cared about them, too. And- while he would never admit it- every time he had to slay a fellow Nord on the battlefield, it tore at his heart. "Now go forth, and inspire the men. You have worked hard for our victories, and I only ask of you to endure a bit longer. Soon, we will strike down the Imperial dogs and once again taste our freedom."

The captain saluted him proudly, and was gone.

Immediately, Ulfric turned to look out the window, out over his city; the busy streets, the people. Everyone seemed happy enough, and everything seemed to be in order. Not for the first time, his eyes scanned over the most ragged part of his city, so affectionately called "The Gray Quarter" on the streets. He reminded himself again that he would have to fix that when this war was over.

"Ulfric." Galmar said firmly.

Ulfric turned. "Galmar."

"You were thinking about Fire-Hammer throughout that entire exchange."

Ulfric sighed, running his hands through his hair. "Is it that obvious?" He muttered.

"Only to me. You are able to carry out your job just the same as always, you look the same as always. But I know you."

Ulfric had to smile at that. "That you do."

"Come now. It's not like you loved the girl."

"No," Ulfric agreed, "I didn't. But I could have."

"So why can't you let it go? We have received no ransom note, not from the old _steward,_" He spat the word, "Nor from the Imperials demanding our surrender in exchange for her. That points to her simply being dead."

"You really think that the old man could have killed her?"

"He kidnapped her," Galmar pointed out.

"Did he?" Ulfric asked, and watched as a look of comprehension dawned on Galmar's face.

"Ulfric. You don't think she would have abandoned the cause like.."

"I don't know her, Galmar. I didn't think so, at first. She is honorable. But she is far, far too strong, and too smart, to be kidnapped so easily."

"There are ways," Galmar said- and Ulfric could tell that the possibility that he had raised bothered his old friend. " He was a trusted member of your staff. He could have laced her tea, or whatever it is that woman drank. From there it was simply a matter of taking one of the secret passages out with her."

"And when she awoke?"

Galmar was silent.

"What is the probability that she was kidnapped by an old man, who, even if he could carry her with his feeble bones, stood absolutely no chance against her when she was awake? Fire-Hammer would have burned him alive and..."

Would she have returned to him? The anger in her eyes still haunted him.

"And she would have returned. She was loyal to our cause, Ulfric. Loyal to you."

"Not to me," He said, with not a little bit of sadness. "Maybe at first, but not any longer."

"Ulfric. What exactly happened? You still haven't told me all of the details."

So he hadn't. The memory of it was still painful to him. "I...called upon her to speak with me. Your description of her behavior...it...worried me." Ulfric stole a quick glance behind him to make sure no one was coming. "I care about my people, you know that. And, I cannot lie to you, Galmar, she has always fascinated me. So..."

"Let me get this straight," Galmar said, incredulously, after his friend had finished. "...You put her against the wall _without _attempting to...?"

Ulfric covered his face with his palm. "...I..Yes. Yes, Galmar."

"This woman truly does affect you," Galmar said in disbelief, shaking his head.

"Out of everything I just told you, that is the part you choose to remember?"

"Ulfric, we are Nords. When we pursue a woman in the way that you just described to me, there is no question where it ends. You know that. This...this is baffling."

"I just wanted to help her, Galmar. I wanted to break down those walls."

"But _why_, Ulfric? I know you care for your people, but this is a step above and beyond, don't you think? At first I thought...well, if you had wanted her for your bed...but you didn't make such a move."

"...I thought about it," Ulfric admitted finally, "But what I was trying to accomplish was much more important, and it...wouldn't be accomplished if I tainted the moment with desire."

"It wasn't accomplished, period."

Ulfric sighed, again.

"You said her real name was Lucinda."

"Yes."

"...Hmph. I'll get someone on it, to find out who she is. Someone who _isn't _a soldier, and won't be any loss to us while he's off doing this." Galmar truly didn't care, himself; but his king did, and that's what mattered to him. "I don't know how far he'll get with, 'A young Breton named Lucinda', but we'll see..."

"I feel as though it would be betraying her trust."

"She doesn't trust you anymore, anyway."

Ulfric knew this was true, and his heart sank. "Fine," He relented, "Do it."

"I'd like to make a prediction...after hearing that story of yours." Galmar smirked slightly.

Ulfric looked at his friend, then, and waited.

"She will be with us at Solitude."

His first instinct was- honestly- to scoff. But...then he thought about it. What did he know about her? What was most important to her?

Protecting those who couldn't fight for themselves.

"...You know, my friend," Ulfric said, and his heart soared at the thought, "I believe you're right."

"We'll see, eh?" Galmar grins. "Breton or not, hating you or not- she is a true Stormcloak if I ever saw one. She hates the Empire with a passion I admire. Just like us."

"Indeed." Ulfric rubbed his chin. "Well, my friend. I thank you for indulging me this night, but I have grown tired. I'm going to head to my quarters."

"Talos guide you. See you in the morning."

Ulfric nodded and headed to his chambers, his mind whirling. He already had so much to wrap his mind around with this war, but now he had the worry that an innocent woman had met her death because of him; or worse yet, that he'd truly hurt her as badly as he thought, and with good intentions. Galmar said he would dig into her past, and, despite his subconscious telling him he'd rather hear it from her mouth...

….He had never been one to be patient. When he met resistance, he pushed right back, until the walls fell.

After he'd disrobed and fallen into bed, all he could think that was that he truly hoped Galmar was right: that she had planned this kidnapping, and she was out doing exactly whatever it was she truly wanted to do. It meant he could see her again if he wanted to. And even if he didn't see her...well...it meant she was alive. Maybe even happy.

And on that thought, his lips turned into a smile, and he finally let sleep overtake him.


	9. Chapter 9: The Thief and the Proposition

**A/N: **I had a 5 AM epiphany upon browsing a website. Galmar looks exactly like an Ewok. Seriously. Google one, then google Galmar. Tell me I'm wrong.

_Trying to make some sense of it all,  
>But I can see that it makes no sense at all,<br>Is it cool to go to sleep on the floor,  
>'Cause I don't think that I can take anymore... <em>

"Stuck in the Middle With You", Stealers Wheel

"What are your plans now, lass?"

Brynjolf looked over to Gaella. Her hair was being blown back by the wind as she stared off into the distance. It was snowing, as usual, and the snowflakes settled in her hair, little snow drop hair ornaments.

"I've prepared a camp," She said simply, looking around. "Once I gather our location, I will lead you to it, and you may rest."

"We're somewhere near Windhelm, that much I know..."

"Mm." She picks a direction, and walks that way.

Brynjolf raised an eyebrow, but followed her. "...So, Princess. I mean...our deal is still on, right?"

She looked over her shoulder at him- looked him right in the eyes. Her intense gaze made him lose his breath.

"I-I mean, I didn't get to rescue you like I said, but surely you saw that I was no friend of Mercer's..."

"What will you give me for my silence?" She asked, levelly.

Brynjolf broke out into a grin. Surely it couldn't be this easy. Automatically, he reached out and pulled her to him, his arm around her waist, pressing her body into his. "I can think of several things," He purred, leaning down to press his mouth to hers...

...Only to, somehow, feel a huge wave of power hit him square in the chest. He went flying, soaring through the air; and as he hit the snow, hard, he was more dazed – and confused- than he'd been in quite a long time.

Well, at least he was right. It _wasn't_ that easy.

When he finally shook himself out of the daze- groaning, and holding his ribs- he saw the firey red-head herself standing above him.

"Don't you think that was a little harsh, lass?" He wheezed.

"I will _not_ be another notch in your bedpost, Brynjolf. I am not that kind of woman."

"In all fairness," He said, struggling to his feet, "I was offering to be a notch in _your_ bed post. Your last hurrah before being married off to Future High King Stormcloak."

"Do you study the art of being insufferable?" She snapped. "Stop bringing that up!" The woman turned and strode away.

Brynjolf limped after her as best he could. It honestly wasn't hard to catch up to her, even limping. The woman was short and, thusly, had short legs...she was slow. "...I don't understand why you're so against it," He muttered, as he caught up to her.

"I'm against having a future forced onto me that I don't want."

"Well...what _do_ you want, lass?"

"I already told you that."

Brynjolf pondered that. So she did. "...But what is freedom, to you?"

Gaella was silent. Brynjolf would have pressed, but he got the feeling that she was thinking, rather than being deliberately anti-social.

"Freedom is...being able to do what I want to do. When I want to do it."

It was a strange answer, and Brynjolf puzzled over it. "...Who are you, really, lass? Where did you come from, that gives you such views?"

"And who are you, really, and what gives you the idea that I have any inclination to tell you?"

He sighed. He supposed her distrust wasn't unwarranted. She didn't know anything about him, and, intentional or not, he'd broken his promise to her.

"...You know, Mercer tried to kill me too, Gaella." He said gently. "And if it weren't for Karliah, I'd be dead. I was out of commission. I didn't come for you because I was stuck bleeding atop Snow Veil sanctum."

"I figured it was something like that," Gaella said indifferently.

"...Speaking of Karliah," Brynjolf said, starting to get used to answers that really didn't make much sense, "...Why did you save me, and not her?"

"Karliah is the elf?"

"Aye."

"She got out of the way."

Brynjolf stumbled a little. "She...did?"

"Yes. She was very, very fast. I'd assume most in your trade are. She executed a perfect split-second roll. In fact, she noticed the cave-in before I did."

"That's a relief," Brynjolf said, and truly, he _was_ relieved. He hadn't known Karliah long, but she seemed like a good woman. And, she had saved his life. He was still in her debt for that. What was Karliah doing now? Was she still trying to dig her way into that room with the statue? Had she tried to find another way in? Or had she simply given up and gone back to the guild?

He studied the girl in front of him, keeping behind her so he could watch her as he pleased, without her evil glare. He didn't know how long of a walk it would be, so he took the time to ponder. He found that after a while, he had memorized the exact curves of her body out of habit. He didn't mind the knowledge, but wondered that she had not turned around to protest, as surely one as attentive as her would feel his eyes on her body. Normally he paid attention to the bodies of others to find where they most likely hid their change-or, in more dangerous situations a dagger. He decided that if she had treasure, she'd probably keep it closer to eye-level. A breast pocket, maybe. Speaking of which...

"...What's in Mercer's pockets, lass?"

She didn't answer him, and he sighed. "Lass," He said, finally growing irritated, "You have something that I'm sworn to return."

"This?" She holds up the Key, the dark daedric artifact that could unlock anything...the artifact that Mercer had literally killed for.

"Yes!" He sighed in relief. "Now, just hand it here..."

"No."

Brynjolf blinked, and in doing so, missed where she hid it. "Damn it," He growled... "Don't think I won't come after it." And she'd like it, too, he thought smugly.

"Feel free," She said, waving a hand.

Brynjolf was just readying himself, when she said-

"But I'd advise against touching a woman who can set herself on fire at any given time."

He stopped then, and covered his face with his palm. Of course. She was a mage. How...then...could he get back this key? She was hard to talk to, and she didn't seem interested in being charmed. "...What do you want in return for the key, lass?"

"Let me think about it a little longer."

He groaned.

Oh, Gaella knew full well what she wanted in exchange. It was just funny to watch him suffer. The man was cute, and his face had this particular way of scrunching his face up when he was frustrated; this particular look in his eye when he knew he had been bested, however temporarily. She wondered if the man would finally give up on the game of wits and attempt to physically take the key from her after a while.

She was pleasantly surprised to find that he did not. Good. She had hoped he was as intelligent as he seemed.

It was quite a while before she located the vacated camp; the moon was already high in the sky, and she was exhausted. They had stopped, taken breaks...but it was still hours of walking.

"Finally," She heard him murmur from behind her. "Now, about that key..."

"Yes. I have a business proposition for you."

Brynjolf groaned.

"Oh, never mind, then. I'll keep it. I've always wanted a daedric artifact, anyway."

"Don't tease me anymore today, lass." Brynjolf said sharply. "...Did you get rid of the bodies?"

He stepped around her, inspecting the camp. Six tents... "...You killed six bandits?"

"Not exactly," Gaella said. "The giant up the road did. Anyway, about this deal.." She strides forward and sits in front of the logs, which had long ago burned out. She relights the logs with a simple spell, warming herself.

Brynjolf squinted at the girl, and then looked out into the distance, not answering.

"Teach me everything you know."

Brynjolf almost fell over in surprise. "_What_?" He turned his gaze back to her, and when she said nothing further, finally sat across from her, watching her.

Gaella knew he would react this way- who wouldn't? - and she smirked. "I want to join the Thieves' Guild. But I'm a lousy thief. I'm good at planning and I can steal small things just fine, but not without using my invisibility spell or a potion. I need help with that. And that's where you come in."

"So," Brynjolf muttered, "You're saying that you want me to teach you how to break the law and not get caught."

She grinned.

Brynjolf couldn't believe this girl. Furthermore, he couldn't believe just how naughty that grin was. It reminded him of a child who had purposely done something wrong, and was proud of it. He _had_ to ask.

"Are you joking?"

"No," She said honestly.

Brynjolf studied her. He supposed he shouldn't be this surprised. She had already told him multiple times that she did not want to marry Ulfric, and this was a very convenientway of disappearing from under the radar. He probably would have even been able to predict her asking, if he hadn't been so distracted up to this point. But _could_ he make her a good thief? "Have you ever stolen anything before, lass?"

"Yes. Quite a few things." Gaella actually looked sheepish.

"...Okay. What's the biggest thing you've ever stolen?"

"Umm..." Gaella thinks. "...A steak. ...No. A dress. …But it was a big steak. Oh, I don't remember. Either a dress or a steak."

He stared at her. "...Why the hell would you steal a steak?" He asked, in disbelief.

"Because I was hungry?" She answered, sarcastically.

He peered at her. "Spend some time on the streets?"

"Maybe. How is this relevant?"

"I need to know what I'm working with."

She sighed. "Yes."

"So. You stole food and clothing, and other necessities."

"Yes."

"Did you ever get caught?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"...A loy. But I could usually talk my way out of it."

A lot? By Nocturnal. Maybe he ought to let her hold onto that key after all. "...Talk your way out of it?"

"A poor, young, homeless girl on the streets stealing a single wheel of cheese isn't exactly something anyone wants to persecute."

"Homeless?"

"That's not relevant to my skills."

"Aye, lass. But there's no need to be so hostile. Really."

She glared at him for a second, then sighed, trying to relax. "I suppose you are right," She said. "This is more talking than I have done in months, however. Possibly longer."

"Is there any food around here?"

"Yeah. There's some scattered around the tents. Some cabbages, carrots, goat. Maybe a dead rabbit or two."

"I'll tell you what," Brynjolf said, standing up again. "I'm going to make some food for us. You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to tell me. But, given we're about to be spending quite a lot of time together...for an unknown amount of time...maybe you ought to start trusting me." And then he turned his back and went to forage through the tents for food.

Gaella looked down. She wanted to trust him; truly, she did. It was not that she believed, for a second, that he would betray her. She knew he was not that kind of man. She couldn't even place what, exactly, it was that she was afraid of.

So maybe she should stop being afraid of it.

He came back with the supplies and started about making use of the cooking spit.

"Ask what you want to ask," She said begrudgingly.

He looks up at her, meeting her eyes, but says nothing.

"I'm not promising I'll answer. But I won't be mad at you for asking," She adds hastily.

"Very well." Brynjolf looks back down to the pot, continuing to make the stew. "What were you, before you were a Stormcloak and the Dragonborn?"

"An Imperial prisoner."

He raised an eyebrow. "What were you imprisoned for?"

"Being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Come now, lass."

"I'm serious. I hopped the border from High Rock and ended up in the middle of an Imperial ambush. They assumed I was a Stormcloak even then, I suppose? Even though I'm a Breton? Actually, I don't know their reasoning. But they were going to kill me. I was at Helgen."

"You were..."

"Mhm."

"Well, then. Why Skyrim?"

"I owed someone a favor."

Brynjolf peered at her, wanting to ask more, but remembering part of this question-answer exchange was that she didn't have to volunteer more than she wanted to. "Okay. Is Gaella your real name?"

"No."

"What is your real name?"

"I don't wish to share it."

"Why not?"

"Because it ties me to someone I no longer wish to be tied to."

Brynjolf ran his eyes over her face, once again realizing that she was young. So much younger than he thought. It was easy to forget that when he talked to her. "How old are you, lass?"

"I don't know."

"...You...don't know? How exactly does one forget?"

"I didn't _forget_. I just stopped keeping track a long, long time ago."

Interesting. "You're an adult...?" Of course, she certainly _looked _like an an adult, but you never knew with women.

"Yes," Gaella said, and bit back the insult that reared up on her tongue.

"...How long have you been an adult?"

"Ever since I care to remember."

"...You're a runaway." He finally realized it. It made a _lot_ more sense now; these cryptic answers; someone she didn't wish to be tied to; hopping the border. She had been an adult for several years...he ran his eyes over her face again. Twenty-three, he decided.

"So what?"

"It just makes a lot more sense now. Relax..."

Gaella relaxed a little.

"I think you're around your early twenties. Maybe twenty-three."

"Something like that." She shrugged indifferently. "What else?"

"Were you a runaway before or after you were an adult?"

"Technically, a few hours before I became one."

"Why?"

Gaella looked at him then, and Brynjolf felt bad. He had promised himself he wasn't going to push, but...he met her eyes. He so desperately wanted to know.

"Because someone finally set me free, and that's really all I want to say about it, Brynjolf."

He sighed for the thousandth time. More cryptic answers, more puzzles! This girl was driving him mad. Any girl like this usually did, but it was worse now that he knew he was going to have to be in her company for an indeterminate amount of time... "Fine, lass. Just..." He looked down at the soup he was cooking, and it was good he did, because it had started burning . He carefully put the pot down in the snow. "...Just eat some soup, and rest up. We'll leave tomorrow." He grabbed two bowls and poured the soup into them, placing one bowl next to her and sat, turning to his own.

He supposed he ought to have cared a little more about his manners, but he was _starving._ Come to think about it, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. He went through one bowl of soup in record time, and poured himself another; and finished that, too, before he was even a little bit full. He was in the process of pouring a third bowl when she realized she hadn't even touched hers, and was watching him with an appalled expression on her face. He grinned, wiping his beard on his sleeve. "Get used to it, lass. That's the kind of company you're going to be in for a while. Besides. I can't remember the last time I've eaten, and I'm starving. You ought to eat yours, too. Before it freezes."

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"Suit yourself." Brynjolf polished off his third bowl of soup, and then picked a random tent and went into it, laying down to sleep. She was so determined to stay closed and quiet, and every attempt he made to pry was met with an angry push back. He was giving up tonight. He was tired, sore, and he didn't even want to _think_ about all the things he would have to explain to the guild when he got back. Not to mention that they had to find a new guild leader...

No. He was _not_ going to think about that tonight.

He closed his eyes, but he just couldn't get to sleep. The worries on his mind were too numerous: how would he explain Gaella to everyone? How would he get them to approve? Who was going to lead them now that Mercer was gone? Where would Karliah fit into the guild? Would Nocturnal be angry at him if he didn't get the key back right away? Could Karliah take it back to the Sepulcher instead of him? ….Could he pick the key off the girl while she slept? That would solve two problems: for one, she would no longer have that leverage over him; and two, he'd have the key back. Maybe then she could be convinced to go and hide somewhere else.

...But did he want that?

In truth, as frustrated as he was with her, he'd come to like the girl. She was smart, perceptive, and strong. He didn't necessarily want her out of his company just yet. But...the risks outweighed the benefits. The guild would be in danger if she stayed, and what if she never gave him the key- or she lost it...no. He would have to pickpocket her while she slept.

With that thought, he pretended to be asleep, and waited for the girl to lie down herself.

Gaella knew he was up to something.

_Trust him, he says,_ Gaella thought, _bullshit._ Not that she didn't think he'd keep his word- oh, no. She was sure he would do that. But she didn't trust him _not_ to try and get the key while she was sleeping. She finished her soup, slowly, wondering where to slip the key, so that when he went for it, it would wake her up, without a doubt.

Then, she got a great idea...and grinned wickedly.

It seemed that she had _finally_ fallen asleep. Brynjolf quietly sat up. He had almost fallen asleep himself, and he was still in a bit of a daze. Standing up, he crouched, and shook his head to clear it. He crept over to her tent and stood, heart hammering, over her sleeping body.

Now...where had she hidden it.

He knew she wasn't stupid, and wouldn't have left it in her bags. Likely, she'd hidden it in one of Mercer's many pockets. His fingers were trembling as he started down at her thigh. He was so close to her skin, he thought, as his nimble fingers picked through the pockets there and found nothing. He had to focus. He wasn't trying to seduce her – this time. Maybe he'd try again when he was a little more receptive to being thrown 30 feet away. He moved his hands up to the pockets at her hips, his eyes on her face.

He couldn't help but marvel how peaceful she looked in sleep. Her wild mane of hair spread around her like a tangled web. Her skin was tanned, but not natural- the kind of tan one gets from spending too much time in the sun. He wondered if she was naturally pale.

He winced, realizing his hands had been lingering in her hip pockets even though they, too, were empty. He moved his hands up to the pockets on the stomach, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. _Please let them be here..._

Oh, good! There WAS something in there...he drew his hands out, holding two huge, flawlessly cut gems. The eyes of the Falmer! Great! He quickly pocketed those, and, feeling more confident, returned his hands to those pockets again, though this time, they were empty.

And then his confidence was gone, because the only pockets left...

...Were right on her breasts.

_Gods help me, _Brynjolf thought. Not that he didn't _want_ to touch her breasts. Moreso, he didn't want to do it _without her permission._ And he _especially_ didn't want her to wake up while he was doing this. She'd destroy him. He knew that for a fact. While he wasn't a "traditional" Nord and didn't pay much attention to the legends, he knew the powers of a Dragonborn- which the girl was. And he'd felt them firsthand, when she propelled him off of her this afternoon.

He could give up. Walk away.

No...he couldn't. He inched forward, now eyeing the pockets on her bust. He couldn't help eyeing the bust itself, either, and he felt his heart rate increase even more. Couldn't help the desire coursing through his body. He ignored it. He had gone through all of her other pockets without any trouble. Surely this wouldn't be a big deal. He took in a deep breath and held it, and reached into the pockets as lightly and gently as he could possibly manage. He quickly found the key, and was just about ready to cry in victory...

...When he suddenly found himself horizontal, and on top of the woman. He was momentarily stunned, and it took him a few seconds to register her soft, warm, curvaceous body underneath his.

..By the gods. It had never felt so sweet to be caught. He looked up at the woman, only to find her staring at him...with...a strange look. He had expected anger, hatred, or some other negative emotion. Pain? But that look was none of these, and until she reached back to the back of his head and pulled his mouth to hers, he was trying to figure it out.

Of course that was instantly forgotten as she kissed him. It took his mind longer to react than his body; instantly he found himself straddling her hips, putting his hands to either side of her head as he kissed her back, firmly, the desire he had forced down before now raging within him. He growled into her lips as he felt her hands wandering his body, unbidden- arched his back as she dug her nails in. He felt his head spinning with the suddenness of it all, felt his breathing going ragged as he gave her the same treatment, his hands exploring the curves of her body as he longed to do. He fumbled for her zipper, undoing it, and immediately planting kisses on every inch of smooth skin exposed underneath...

Or at least...that had been his plan. Before he could even move that zipper, her hand on his wrist stopped him. Her other hand painfully gripped his hair and pulled him back away from her face...and he realized...

"Predictable," She grunted at him. "Now get off me, stupid."

She let go of his hands and pushed him, sitting up at the same time, and he rolled back, landing on his rump outside her tent. He was absolutely baffled, completely hot and bothered, and unbelievably angry. "What...?"

"By the way," She said, and held up the gems he had stolen, a self-confident smirk on her face. "If you wanted one, you only had to ask."

When she tossed it to him, it hit him in his chest. He was too dumbstruck to catch it. "You pickpocketed me..?" He asked in disbelief.

"You deserved it," She said honestly.

He decided, then, that he couldn't be mad. In fact, the opposite. He was pleased. He laughed uproariously, holding his gut. "You're something else, lass. Really something else."

"Yeah, I get that a lot. Now don't try that again. If you really want the key that bad...I'll give it to you when you get me into the guild. If, on your honor, you promise that you will still honor our deal."

Brynjolf met her eyes then- and he could still feel her lips on his. So soft, but so rough at the same time- her hands, wanting...or so he'd thought. Was she really that good an actress? "I promise, lass. If you do."

"I promise. Now, go back to sleep." And with that, she laid down again, shifting a little to get comfortable.

He watched her for a little while longer, before standing up and heading to his tent. He shook his head. What a strange woman, he thought, crawling under the furs.

And then he was instantly asleep.


	10. Chapter 10: The Princess and the Horse

_In searching for substance  
>We're clouded by struggle's haze<br>Remember the meaning  
>Of playing out in the rain...<em>

"Never Die," Creed

She didn't want him to stop.

His kiss, oh, gods- his kiss was so deep, so passionate- rough, wanting, yet...somehow gentle at the same time. He was like a wave: a cool rush of water refreshing her dry and parched mouth. He called forth the strangest bubbly sensation from within her. It started deep in her toes and slowly spread upwards. And his hands...oh, his hands, so smooth, hitting all the spots that made her head buzz like a thousand hummingbirds. Touching spots she swore she never wanted anyone to touch- spots that, in truth, hadn't been touched until then.

Through the haze, she belatedly wondered if Ulfric would have ever kissed her like this.

That thought sobered her quickly, and she remembered a few _very_ important details which made her pick his pockets as she originally planned- forcing herself _not_ to enjoy caressing his body on the way – and get him off of her, as quick as she could.

Detail 1: He was a playboy; his expertise came not from some divine blessing, but _experience._ Detail 2: She was a virgin, planned on staying one indefinitely, and even if she didn't plan that, she wouldn't have her virginity lost to a playboy. Detail 3: If and when she had sex, it wouldn't be with Ulfric's face in her head. She would wait until she forgot about him completely; forgot the lines on his face, forgot the intense color of his eyes when he was angry; forgot how brilliant his smile was- the way it lit up his whole face as well as the room around him.

Why couldn't life ever be simple?

So she sent him away, convinced him that hadn't enjoyed it at all, and laid back down, thinking that this-her life-was far, far too complicated. And it had too many handsome, infuriating men in it. Why couldn't they be handsome without infuriating? Or infuriating without being handsome? One was tolerable, but both...

It was driving her _crazy._

She didn't sleep well- but then again, she didn't usually- and it took her forever to even attain that blessed state. She was starting to think of rest as a myth, this unobtainable ideal that only existed within fairy tales. Though, to be honest, lately, she was constantly seeking the truth in fairy tales. It seemed like she had only been asleep for minutes when she smelled the smoke of a re-lit fire and some roasting meat or other.

She tried to return back to the warm blanket of sleep; tried to recall what it was she had begun to dream about (the glimmer of wings. Gleena's voice). But she could not call it back to her: it would not come. Instead, she relented, and, with a sigh, sat up and resigned herself to yet another almost-sleepless night and the annoying optimism of morning's light.

"Not a morning person, eh, lass?" Brynjolf asked. The handsome thief was wearing his trademark coy smirk- his stubble starting to form a light beard. He hadn't shaved in a while. She wondered what it would be like to run her palms over that stubble; feel the coarse hair like wheat beneath her fingers, tickling her palms. Enticing her.

"No," She muttered, and then started to rummage through her pack for a brush.

"That's too bad. I always liked the mornings, myself. The promise of a fresh new day. I always wake up energized."

"Fuck you," She said grumpily.

Brynjolf laughed. "I tried, lass. Maybe later, when my ribs and ego are a bit less bruised."

She growled at him, and he laughed again. She _finally_ found her brush and pulled it out, running it through her massive hair. It would take a while to untangle, she knew that. But she didn't necessarily have the energy for talking, and this was a good distraction from her annoyance. Stupid mornings.

She took a long time to brush through her hair, and while she did, she watched him. She didn't reply when he asked if she wanted anything, but noted that he set aside some food for her anyway. She watched him eating, and even though she could tell it was making him uncomfortable, he said nothing about it. He was unnerved around her, she decided. A natural reaction to being studied, she supposed.

"...The way you look at me, lass..." Brynjolf said, softly. "..It's a little..."

"Well, you are by far the most interesting thing I have here to study. If you'd like me to stop, either find me a book, or stop being interesting."

Brynjolf grinned sheepishly. "I don't know if I can help you there, lass. Interesting is subjective."

"Only by definition."

"In truth. Perhaps there are people out there in the world who don't find me as interesting as you do."

"There are various things you can do to stop being interesting to me."

"But, lass," He turned his eyes to meet hers, then, and said, softly, "What if I don't want to stop being interesting to you?"

"Then you are wasting your time and desiring that which you cannot have," She said plainly.

"Never say never, lass."

"Brynjolf," She growled, "I'm giving you a warning. There are many other places in Tamriel that I could go, many other places I could take my business...there are even more places I could hide your body. If there was anything left of it."

"You wouldn't hurt me, lass. Not as it stands now."

"If you gave me a good reason to, I'd kill you. And I'd never once feel bad about it. Don't forget that."

He stood then, and walked forward. He knelt before her, looking her right in the eyes. "Then I promise," He said, softly- so softly that she strained to hear him, "That I will never give you a good reason."

She stared at him for a minute, then turned away, unable to take his soul-searching gaze any longer. They weren't so different. He, too, was a people-watcher; he, too, was perceptive. Just like Ulfric had been. Of course it would be, that the two most perceptive people people she'd ever met, would have to be during the only part in her life where she actually _wanted_ to be alone. And of course she would have to meet them at just about the same time...

He didn't press her, and for that, Gaella was glad. He stood up and went back to the camp, packing up some things. "We'd best be off soon, lass. I saved you some meat. You can eat it on the way."

Gaella nodded, putting her brush away and gathering her things. She stood up and took the meat he was offering her; but she wouldn't look at him as they pressed on.

_Now,_ he thought, _Now I'm getting somewhere_.

He tried not to think of it as strange, as they pressed on. Those things he had said...they were automatic. Predictable. The right thing to say at the right time. Why did they work on her? She was too smart for that. But, he thought, noting how she refused to look at him now- they were working. He tried not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak. It's not like he was lying; he _wouldn't_ give her a reason to kill him. At least, not on purpose. At the same time, though, he had no idea what she considered 'a good reason' in the first place.

He tried to ignore the feeling in his stomach that told him he had actually meant what he said. Instead he continued to play the game he was best at, and reached to take a stray leaf out of her hair; smirked when she batted his hand away. "You have a leaf," He explained.

"Maybe I kept it on purpose," She said.

"Did you?"

"I tend to prefer plants over people. You'll never find me complaining when one decides to tag along."

He laughed softly. "Alright, lass. I'll leave your leaf be, for now."

"You'll leave my leaf alone until I say otherwise."

"If you say so." He turned his eyes forward for a moment, to check their location. "We're almost at the Windhelm stables. I take it that you-" When he looked back to her, she was gone. "...Invisibility. Of course. One step ahead, like always..."

Once they were onboard the carriage, he used a blanket from the back to cover the ground, so that Gaella could slip under it when her spell or potion or whatever it was- he knew nothing about magic- wore off. The ride to Riften was uneventful, and mostly quiet but for the occasional conversation he could get from the driver.

Or at least...it was until they met the dragon.

He had heard a weird noise echoing off the mountains, but, seeing nothing, paid it no mind. That was his first mistake. The dragon- a massive, black, terrifying thing- landed several yards in front of the carriage and let out a monstrous roar. The carriage horses reared back and the driver screamed louder and higher than any Nord- man or woman - ever should.

Brynjolf was momentarily blinded by the blanket he'd placed over Gaella flying off as the girl took off. Not, he realized – as he would have suspected, after his vision was clear again- _away_ from the dragon, like a sane person.

No, the girl was running _to_ the dragon.

"Lass!" Against all of his better instincts, he took off after her. "Are you crazy? Are you out of your mind?"

The dragon's attention immediately turned to the girl, and she began to fight it. As Brynjolf ran forward, he could almost _swear_ that the dragon was having words with Gaella, the noises that came with their attacks starting to sound far too much like an actual...shouting match.

"FRO KRAH DIIN!"

"YOL...TOR SHUUL!"

And their breaths met, ice and fire, each battling for supremacy.

Brynjolf knew he wasn't nearly as impressive as that, or as flashy. But he was agile, and he knew how to use that to his advantage. He ran forward and jumped, using his force to propel himself onto the dragon's back, driving a dagger into a spot between scales, into weak flesh. The dragon roared and turned its head to try and snap at him, and he barely got out of the way, falling off the dragon and losing his dagger in the process. The dragon was focusing on him then, and rearing back for an attack, when-  
>"STRUN BA QO!"<p>

The sky turned dark, rain falling down in a sudden storm. Lightning struck the dragon, stunning it and allowing Brynjolf to fall back behind its wings. He only had one dagger then, but he made as much use of it as he could, hacking and slashing away at the delicate wing joints, at anything soft that he could injure.

Gaella managed to keep the dragon's focus off of him the rest of the fight- and he would be furious with her for it, if he thought he was really capable of taking a bite from it and living. He was just a simple thief- his expertise in daggers and hand to hand. What did he know about fighting dragons?

Then, there was a loud chomp, and a shriek. He turned and saw that the dragon, as a last ditch- effort- had finally taken Gaella in its mouth, and was rearing back- to do what, he didn't know. Eat her? Toss her? Either way, he couldn't let it happen. He took his last dagger, aimed, threw- and hoped with all of his might that it would aim true.

Thank the Gods- it did. It landed right in the dragon's eye, causing it to burst, and the thing to drop Gaella as it finally began to die.  
>Brynjolf ran as fast as he could to retrieve her before she hit the ground. He grunted when he caught her, and sprinted a fair distance away with her in his arms before he even <em>dared<em> to look back at the dragon.

It was doing something most bizarre. Or maybe, this was how all dragons died (he'd never actually seen one before today). The flesh was simmering off its skin, as if flame, and its skin was disappearing into smoke, leaving only bones. And then there was a great wind, blowing towards them, and Brynjolf turned his back to shield them from it. It was hard to stay upright, and then, for some reason he didn't understand, the wind was bending around him and blowing forward _into_ Gaella, her form glowing lightly. The wind didn't last long, but the glow around her took longer to fade, and he was transfixed. It was the most brilliant color, almost like a dull rainbow.

But...once it had faded...he could see how badly she was wounded.

"Lass," He called. "Lass, talk to me. How bad are you hurt? Do you have any potions?"

She was shaking in his arms and that killed him; the dragon's teeth had sunk deep and blood was staining her robes in much the way the glow had just a few seconds prior.

"My pockets," She wheezed, "Pour the porions _on_ the wounds..._on_ them...aahhh, Talos, it hurts.."

He knelt down and braced her gently against one knee, going through her pockets and pulling out anything that even remotely resembled a potion. But which of these potions was it? "By the Nine," He muttered, "Talk about a fish out of water..."

"Dark red!" She shouted, and normally he'dve been annoyed- but she must be in an awful lot of pain. To get _bitten_ by a _dragon._ He couldn't even fathom that. Of course, most of the time he spent in her company seemed to be in situations he was in no way equipped to handle. He picked up the dark red potions as bidden, and opened them, pouring them on all the bite marks he could find, until eventually there were no dark red potions left.

He didn't think the wounds looked any better. "Lass, are you feeling any better?"

"Only a little," She wheezed, "That'll keep me from dying for now, but I need to go to a temple...my magic is absolutely spent, and I can't heal myself like this."

Brynjolf looked up, studying their surroundings, and was unfathomably grateful that they weren't too far from Riften. He gathered the woman in his arms again and stood up, searching for the carriage and its driver- both of which, of course, were gone. It'd be better, easier, and faster to steal a horse, he thought, setting out in the direction of a nearby farm. "I'm going to get a horse, lass," He murmured softly, "It'll get us there faster."

"No."

He almost stopped, but urgency kept him from halting completely. He settled for looking down at her incredulously. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean, no. The Empire kills people for stealing horses."

"This is Stormcloak territory."

"I don't care. You're not stealing a horse."

"Lass..."

"No!"

He sighed heavily, and ignored her. She wasn't really in a situation to do anything about him stealing a horse- she couldn't even open her eyes, it looked like- and she would have to get used to things like this, anyway. "If you're planning to run with the Guild, lass, we steal a lot more expensive things than horses."

She was silent.

Yet another piece of a puzzle he had to shuffle away for later. He didn't press her further, allowing her to conserve her energy. He laid her carefully against a tree outside of the village, and stole the horse in broad daylight without much trouble. He'd been doing this all his life, damn it, and it felt good to finally get back to doing something he knew how to do. He brought the horse around and helped the girl stand up.

"You're going to ride behind me. Can you get on the horse?"

"Why did you steal a horse? I told you not to steal the fucking horse."

"Because, _lass_," He snapped, finally losing patience with her, "You're my apprentice, and you don't get to order me around. I am not going to indulge you over something this ridiculous when you're close to death."

She was quiet for a second- for _once._ Then, she murmured, "Fine, you dumb asshole. I'll get on the horse."

He sighed, rubbing his temples. He helped her stand up, her eyes _finally_ opening, and helped her brace herself against the beast temporarily. As he mounted himself, he heard her talking to the horse.

"You're a pretty Mister Horse, aren't you?" She murmured into its flank, rubbing the horse's midsection. "I bet you get all the Miss horses."

He then started to worry if she was getting delirious. If she was, that wasn't a good sign. "Lass. Come up here. Stop talking to the horse."

"Horses need to be talked to, too," She said stubbornly, but took his hand and accepted his help up.

_He is so _warm, She thought, as she hugged Brynjolf around the waist and pressed herself into his back for support. So warm that it was making her sleepy. Her head was clouded with pain and the fatigue that accompanies blood loss, but somehow, hearing the breathing and heartbeat of another living being was relaxing. She thought for sure she'd hear more snarky comments from him, but he said nothing. It was painful- horses were a bit jarring to ride in the first place, and the rocky terrain made it worse. With almost every lurch the pain intensified; despite herself, she was groaning in agony.

She was barely clinging to consciousness by the time they reached the gates.


	11. Chapter 11: The Thief and His Drink

**A/N:** I'm becoming increasingly aware that "Opheliac" by Emilie Autumn seems to suit Gaella fairly well at this point. At the end of this fic I'll be attaching 'Author's Notes' detailing all the tracks that fit, as well as the motifs, symbolism, and themes I'm attempting to employ in this piece. I'd also be happy to talk about them if anyone's interested. Just leave a comment and I'll message you. :)

Thank you to all of you for reading, it means a lot to me. :) Knowing that people enjoy my work makes writing this for you that much more amazing.

_I've been so disillusioned  
>I know you'd take me back<br>But still I feign confusion  
>I couldn't be your friend<br>My world was too unstable  
>You might have seen <em>**_the end..._**

"Opheliac", Emilie Autumn

He couldn't go through the main gates. He had no way to cover her, and in Stormcloak territory, she'd be recognized for sure.

So he went around the back, worrying more with every second because, every second, her grip on him was lessening. "Lass," He murmured, "Stay with me. Please. I can't have you dying in my care. I'd hang for sure." Hang if he was _lucky_. Likely they'd torture him to death. Ulfric was not known for his mercy.

"Yeah," She muttered, "Hang."

And then, he felt guilty for his selfishness. "...Besides. I don't want my newest apprentice dying on me. I'd be a crappy master, then, wouldn't I?"

She didn't answer, and he went from feeling worried to feeling awful. How could he be thinking of his own hide, first, at a time like this?

He urged the horse to go faster, and soon enough they came in through the back of the city. He took the horse as close as he could to the secret entrance to the guild without attracting attention. He'd take her down into the guild and cut up a blanket, covering her face and hair, and pass her off as his sister when they went to the temple.

"Lass. I'm going to get off now. Please fall _towards_ me, if you can.."

"Stupid," She murmured into his back, which he took as a good sign.

He dismounted, and of course, she fell _away_ from him. He belatedly wondered if she did it on purpose just to be a pain in the ass. Either way, he managed to grab onto her before she slipped off the horse and heft her over his shoulder.

"What about Mister Horse?"

"Lass, stop talking."

"But the horse..."

"Leave it alone!" Brynjolf was half tempted to shake her. "Keep your strength for staying conscious and alive until I can get you to the temple!"

"Why aren't we at the temple?"

"I can't carry you in there. You look too distinctive without cover." He tugged on the chain that would open the way to the back of the thieves' guild. He finally felt somewhat relieved, watching the door open. He hurried through the back rooms and dropped her on one of the beds, taking a spare knife from one of his pockets and starting to cut up the sheets to better hide her.

_Damn,_ his daggers. He hoped that they would be there later when he went back to retrieve them.

"...Oy, Brynjolf. What's this?" Delvin asked from behind him. Brynjolf hadn't even noticed the Breton approaching; for a fat man, he was remarkably silent. That, of course, was the reason he was chosen to instruct the others in the art of stealth.

"What does it look like, Delvin?" He snapped, starting to wrap the strips of fabric around Gaella's hair and face. "She needs a damn temple healer, and I can't take her in there with her face showing.

"Did you sanitize those wounds?"

"Hell if I know. I just poured some potions on it like she told me to."

He had felt Gaella stiffen beneath him as soon as Delvin approached. Why? He would have to ask her later. But if she had enough strength to be nervous, then that was a good sign. A very good sign.

"Better to be sure. Hold on, I'll clean her up before you take her to the temple."

Delvin was gone before Brynjolf could tell him not to bother, though he supposed he would have noticed him leave if he was bothering to pay attention to the man right now.

"Lass," Brynjolf muttered, leaning down and sitting Gaella up, bracing her against the wall. "I'm sorry. We're going to need to take off the armor to get to your wounds."

"No..."

Gods, she sounded so weak. It broke his heart. "Yes," He said firmly, "I can't say you that no one's going to be having a look at you, but I will say this: no matter how pretty you are, I promise that they'll be looking at the killer wounds you have...likely they'll even draw more attention than your body would."

She didn't answer, and he sighed, taking her hand in his. "...Why are you nervous around Delvin? What is it about him that you don't like?"

But Delvin was back, too soon. "Nervous or not, this needs to be done. Now come on, get that armor off her."

Brynjolf reluctantly unzipped her armor, and because some things never changed, the first thought that came across his mind was, _Why couldn't I be undressing her under more desirable circumstances?_

Though,any thoughts in _that_ direction were instantly derailed when he saw the extent of the wounds and her blood-streaked torso. "Gods," He exclaimed breathlessly, "I'm going to get a rag to clean her off."

Delvin nodded and started to ready the antiseptic and bandages. Brynjolf cut a few more strips of cloth off of the bedsheet and, without a better alternative, dunked them into the waters of the cistern. To his knowledge, the water was clean, and even if it wasn't-well, that was what the antiseptic and church healers were for. He hurriedly returned to her side, mopping up the blood as best he could.

He realized that he was right about her skin tone. Once he had cleared most of the blood away, he saw that beneath the armor her skin was a creamy pale. It looked so soft, and the wounds looked so..._wrong_ on her body. But, do wounds _ever_ look right? He sighed and tossed the blood-soaked rags to the side.

"Alright, beautiful. This is going to hurt."

Brynjolf took her hand in his, again. "You squeeze if it does." He wondered why Delvin felt it necessary to warn her. Most antiseptics hurt, but Gaella had been a soldier. She knew pain. The slight sting of an antiseptic would be nothing.

….Apparently, this wasn't just _any_ antiseptic. Consequently, she was _screaming_ and holding onto his hand so tight he feared she was breaking it.

If this is what it felt like to be saved, she didn't want to be saved. Death would be a blessed release from this pain. Originally, she _had_ thought she was dying when she opened her eyes she saw only black for a few seconds. Her vision, even as the black slowly faded, was still blurry and out of focus. She barely registered something about an antiseptic on the corner of her awareness.

O, Agony.

She heard a scream, and she was barely even aware that it was hers. She didn't know anything, anymore. Not her name. Not where she was. Not how or why this man was hurting her.

It was too much for her to take, and unconsciousness took her like an anvil to the face.

"Gods, what did she get bitten by?" Delvin asked incredulously, "Look at how it's bubblin'."

Brynjolf was _not_ interested in the fact that the antiseptic was bubbling in her wounds. He was interested in the fact that all of a sudden her grip had gone limp and he was able to pull his hand free. He flexed his hand, trying to get some feeling back into it (other than soreness). "Damn it, Delvin. Why was it hurting her that badly?"

"Why do you think I asked what bit her? It shouldn't."

"Well, the pain of it finally knocked her out. Something I had been hoping to avoid, by the way." He shot back crossly.

"Don't you start blaming me for this, Brynjolf."

Brynjolf rubbed his face. "Fine, fine. Sorry."

Delvin started to wrap her wounds tightly in bandages, as best he could. They were bleeding again, and making his job harder than it needed to be.

Brynjolf went and rifled around in the trunk at the edge of his bed until he found a spare shirt. He brought it back and, as soon as Delvin had finished wrapping Gaella's wounds, tugged it over her torso. The girl looked absolutely ridiculous, and that was going to solicit questions. But he didn't have time to think up a proper disguise. He had to get her help _now._ He was going to have to run all the way to the temple. He gathered her in his arms. "Thanks," He muttered, and started sprinting back towards the nearest exit.

"Don't mention it...really. Don't tell 'er it was me."

Brynjolf would have laughed any other time but this. He had nothing on his mind then but getting to temple before this girl died and damned them all.

...Before she died without telling him anything about her past.

He knew that in reality, it probably had been less than five minutes of travel when he finally arrived, but it had felt like five hours. His legs couldn't carry him fast enough. He burst through the temple gates.

"I need a healer! Please! My sister is dying!"

The priests were on him immediately. "What happened? She's so pale..."

"She got bitten by a dragon. She's lost so much blood, please..." He made sure his voice sounded strained- but he didn't have to try very hard, given the circumstances.

The priests ushered him toward the back of the temple, where he laid her upon the indicated table. When bidden, he lifted her shirt, showing the bloodstained bandages. He was unceremoniously shoved out of the way as prayers were shouted and healing spells began.

He almost lost his balance at the shove, but managed to stay standing. He moved back out of the way, watching the frenzy of priests swarm around her.

The week had been insane. Finding out about Mercer's betrayal had been daunting enough, and then on _top _of that, he had acquired an apprentice - but not just any apprentice! The _dragonborn_, who _also_ happened to be engaged to Ulfric Stormcloak. And who, now, was mere inches from death.

"Don't die, lass," He said uselessly. "Please. I can't take any more this week."

He liked to think that if she were able, she would have offered him a helpful 'fuck you.'

It took hours.

"Wake up. Wake up, Brynjolf. I have good news." One of the priests was shaking him from his restless slumber.

He groaned, opening his eyes. He had been so exhausted that he had curled up on one of the other 'healing tables' and fallen asleep. He hadn't been able to do anything, anyway, might as well get some rest while he still could. "Tell me that's not a dream, lad. Tell me you said good news." He blinked a few times, throwing sleep off like a blanket and letting his eyes focus. The light filtering in from the windows indicated that it was late afternoon, now.

"I did! Your sister is going to be just fine, Brynjolf. It took us a long time, but Mother Mara heard our prayers and came to her aid. Praise be to Mara!"

Or was it Akatosh, he wondered, standing up. Wasn't Akatosh sometimes pictured as a dragon? Then surely, he thought, as he strode closer to his "sister," surely it had been Akatosh that helped the _dragon_born live. "Thank you," He said, turning to face the priests and priestesses, and he didn't have to fake the sincerity in his voice in the slightest. "Thank you so much."

"Of course," said the head priestess, "These are hard times...see to it that you two take better care when traveling."

"Aye," Brynjolf said, and turned to gather the girl in his arms. "That we will."

"...Why is she wearing such strange garments upon her head?"

They had been so close to dodging that question...thankfully, he'd been ready, just in case. "She is very badly scarred. Our father wasn't the kindest man, and he did some nasty things before the law finally took him in."

The answer, just as he had planned, caused the holy crowd to fall silent and radiate quiet sympathy.

There was nothing as sweet as playing someone for a fool. At times like this, when there were several someones, it was especially magnificent. This was what separated him from the common swindler: the experience that taught him when and how to lie, and when and how to tell the truth. Even if the priests suspected that he was lying, they would never ask. Never pry. Genius.

And with that he was gone, carrying the princess into the dusk of the evening.

He set her in _his_ bed, so she wouldn't be disturbed, and then sat down on the other side of her, leaning his head back against the wall. He couldn't believe this week. All he wanted to do right now was sleep, but he knew he couldn't. There was still so much more to be done, and who knew how long he would have to take a breather?

Five minutes. Maybe even less than.

"Brynjolf," Delvin called.

Bryn straightened up and looked at his friend, sighing. "Can't I just get ten minutes, lad? It's been one hell of a week."

"'Fraid not. We has some issues that need discussin'. First and foremost, the new leadership of the guild..." He trailed off pointedly.

"Damnit, Delvin. I don't want to be the guild leader."

Delvin sighed. "We already put it to a vote. You're it. It makes sense anyway, Bryn, ya been here longer than all of us, and more charisma than all of us lot combined."

"Fuck the vote," He said, finally letting some of his frustration show through, "You take it. Or Vex. Or even Karliah."

"Ain't none of us want it, either. And it's not really much different from what you been doing."

"Except it's more responsibility. A _lot_ more responsibility."

"No one else could deal with it."

"I _can't_ deal with it."

"Sure you can."

Brynjolf growled, knowing a losing argument when he saw one. But, he wasn't going to let it slide that easily. He just wouldn't deal with it right now, that was all. "We'll talk about it later. What else?"

Gaella stirred next to him, and he looked over at her. She was still asleep, but she probably wouldn't be if he and Delvin kept fighting next to her. "On second thought, let's move. Let her sleep."

Delvin shrugged and followed him as he led them into the back, near the archery targets.

"Alright. So...what else, now?"

"What're we going to do about Karliah?"

"What about her? She's a member of the guild, now. Her name is cleared."

"Right. But are we going to consider her to fill the empty officer slot we have now? Her skills are downright inspirin'."

Brynjolf pondered that, rubbing his beard. "I would say definitely. What does Vex think?"

"Vex don't have no opinion. She wants to wait and see what kind of coin Karliah can bring in."

"Fair enough. I don't think Karliah'll mind doing that. She made it back alright, then?"

"Yeah."

"Where is she now?"

"She said somefin' about running a quick job or two, waiting for you to get back."

"Of course..." Brynjolf sighed, rubbing his face. He had to return the key to Nocturnal and fulfill his duty as a Nightingale. So much to take care of, so little time. Wait a second...

_The key! _"Delvin, where did you put Mercer's old shirt?"

"That old thing? Hell, I threw it away. It had holes in it from whatever bit her, and it was stained with blood."

Brynjolf stared at him in horror. "You...threw it away?" The blood started draining from his face.

"Yeah, why?"

"...Tell me you went through the pockets."

"I did."

Brynjolf finally remembered how to breathe. "And? What did you find?"

"Nothing."

"...Nothing?"

"Nothing. Quite disappointin', actually."

Brynjolf rubbed his face. "Gods," he muttered. He really, _really_ hoped that Gaella had just put it somewhere else. This was too much stress for his poor heart.

"You okay, friend? You really look like you need a drink."

"I need a drink more than I've ever needed in my life."

"Well, come on then. I'll treat ya."

Of course, Delvin waited until _after _Brynjolf had finished his first ale before asking the obvious questions, "So...when are we takin' the princess back? She's agreed not to turn us in, right?"

Brynjolf looked up at the man, and pondered just how to put this. After a few seconds, he figured there really was no good way to put it. "She's my apprentice."

"...Your _what_?"

"My apprentice. She saved my life, recovered an artifact that Karliah and I were after, and agreed not to turn us in. In return, she wants me to teach her how to become a good thief and allow her to join the guild."

The look on Delvin's face suggested that he didn't understand at all. "So, let me get this straight. She is set to get married to someone who will probably become High King in less than two months, and she'd rather hole up with a bunch of lowlife cutpurses in the sewer?"

Brynjolf shrugged. He didn't necessarily understand it either. He knew she didn't hate Ulfric, despite the fact that he was going to allow her to be forced into a life and marriage she didn't want. He even suspected that she actually loved him, at least a little bit, but that wasn't something he could confirm until he got her to talk more.

"...Sounds like our friend Niruin."

"Really?" Brynjolf raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah. You ain't never talked to him? He used to be a high ranking noble, with a beautiful wife and lots of coin. He left it. Said it was too borin'. That, I ain't never gonna understand. I love coin more than I could ever love anyone else. And the more there is available to me, the better."

He laughed at that, and Delvin grinned in response. "Boring...I don't know. That doesn't sound like her."

"I 'unno, mate. She's never talked to me."

"...Never?" Brynjolf boggled at that. "But you guarded her every day for hours."

"Not a peep. I thought she was a mute 'till jus' now."

"Why doesn't she like you, Delvin? Did you do something?"

"Hell if I know. I brought her her damn quills and gave her first aid. She ought to love me, like everyone else."

Brynjolf laughed again. "That's why you're my best friend, Delvin. You keep the mead flowing and the laughter coming."

"Bryn, buddy, that ain't the only thing I can keep coming, but that only applies to women."

"I'll toast to that." He clinked his mug with his friend's. "You and me both. Though..." Though he had never met a woman that was so deliberately against any sort of romantic contact with him. Unless it was to ensure a successful picked pocket, of course.

"Though what?"

"Though I have to tell you, even though she doesn't seem to want to marry him...Gaella's awfully loyal to Ulfric."

"Well, of course. You think you could ever fuck her like the High King?"

"No," Brynjolf said, "I think I could do it better."

And then they both succumbed to uproarious laughter.

He spent the rest of the night drinking mead, tying loose ends, and hammering out the fine details. Much to his dismay, he found himself agreeing to the title of guild leader. He didn't know which was to blame, by that point: his slight intoxication or his fatigue. Maybe it was both.

Needless to say, he plastered when he crawled into his bed.

She awoke to someone moving her. It was late, she knew that much, and fatigue clung to her like spiderwebs. She swore she could see dust rising off of her when she opened her eyes. Whoever was moving her, though, hadn't really moved her much. She tried to focus her vision. Where was she?

She didn't know. It was a cistern of some sort- filled with beds (what the fuck?)- and someone was holding her against him while he slept. Whoever this person was, he was holding her very tightly, and he was much too warm. The stench of alcohol drifted over her when she felt him bury his face in her hair.

"What the hell?" She asked angrily, and her voice sounded rusty, like hinges on a coffin. She supposed that the mist she had been seeing, presumably hours prior, were the mists of Sovngarde or whatever heaven or plane of oblivion she would have ended up in. That would explain why she felt this way.

"Mmm...your hair...smells...so _good_, lass." Bryn's words were slow and slurred; barely even coherent.

"Oh, Gods. You're drunk."

"I am not drunk!"

"..."

"Okay, maybe a lil' drunk..."

"What time is it?"

"Night time."

Gaella groaned. "Let go of me. I'm sore, and I'm not your damned stuffed animal."

"Nooo."

Gaella grunted as he pulled her even tighter, making it hard to breath. She _was_ sore, but a little bit of soreness never hurt anyone – it wasn't that that annoyed her. It was the fact that someone she barely knew was spooning her. "Let go of me or I'll set you on fire."

The only response she got to that was a snore. The asshole had fallen asleep!

"Bastard!" She tried to struggle free of his grip, but even in slumber his arms were clamped around her like iron shackles. "Damn it..."

"You're going to be stuck there for a while. When Bryn gets that drunk, he latches onto the nearest warm body and passes out. Last time, we had to grease his arms to get Dirge out."

Gaella looked up to see who spoke. It was Vex- that tall blonde woman from before-and she looked like she was finding this entire ordeal hilarious.

"Then get the damn grease."

"Oh, no way. This is too funny."

Gaella growled, now truly considering making good on her threat to Brynjolf and then setting Vex on fire as well.

She spent a good amount of time trying to pry the man off of her, unsuccessfully. This made no sense. She may have been a mage, but the Stormcloaks trained _all_ of their soldiers the same, mage or not. Therefore she had a lot more strength than a random spellcaster. And the man was asleep! But, she supposed, even if Brynjolf was just a thief, he was still a Nord. And there had never been any question about his physique under that armor. She supposed that it was possible that Nords could utilize their legendary strength even in their sleep.

After a good ten minutes of struggling, she finally gave up. She was still exhausted, and this was only causing further fatigue. Furthermore, she supposed she didn't have to worry about him feeling her up anymore (given what happened last time he tried). So, with one final glare at Vex, who had been watching the whole time, she laid her head on the pillow and closed her eyes, returning again to the dream realm.


	12. Chapter 12: Those Who Dream

**A/N: I will be slowing down on my fic postings because I am well into the Spring Semester at college, and I have a **_**lot**_** of work to do every week. I still plan to keep updating, the story will not be shelved, so don't worry. :)**

Be warned. This is...a fairly graphic chapter. It's skippable, but I'd prefer that you'd read at least the last few paragraphs. :)

Also, as my friend noted: "...Ulfric don't give a damn about distance! He bangs who he wants! Ulfric has been know to just pelvic thrust in a random direction. and someone miles away gets sexified *nod* Trufax, it's in the lore." That is because he is secretly...honey badger. 3 So...anyone interested in drawing High King Honey Badger and his second in command, Angry Ewok?

_Close your eyes,  
>Let me touch you now...<br>Let me give you something that is real.  
>Close the door,<br>Leave your fears behind._

_Let me give you what you're giving me._

_When I am with you  
>There's no reason to pretend<br>And when I am with you, _

_I feel flames again..._

"Flames", Vast

"We've taken Whiterun."

Her king turned his eyes upon her, and she met his eyes steadily. Try as she might to hide it, she was incredibly proud of the victory; she knew it showed in her stance and posture. She broke out into a grin upon delivering the news.

"Indeed," Ulfric rumbled in that deep voice of his, stepping forward and closer to her. He looked down to the Breton and smiled happily. "You look like you escaped without much injury."

"I healed what I could, but I'm no expert in restoration. I have scars."

"Scars are beautiful."

"I think so, too."

Gaella felt herself blush softly under that smile, the intense gaze of those eyes.

"With such a strategic position, we are in wonderful shape. What of Balgruuf?"

"He left. Gray-Mane is on the throne now."

"Indeed. I believe you've more than earned a reward."

"The only reward I need is the knowledge that more people are safe because of us."

He put his hand on her head, and she tried not to make a face, taking the gesture as patronizing. Then she realized that he was not patronizing her, but inspecting her wild hair, feeling the texture of it, and musing about something. About what reward to give her? _That_ made her uncomfortable. "You don't need to give me anything, Ulfric. Really."

"There are plenty of things I _want_ to give you, Firemane."

She wondered if that...belied an ulterior motive. Did it? She was instantly nervous. Was that what he meant? How do you refuse a king?

...Did she _want_ to refuse him?

No, she realized. And that was the scariest part of all.

"You're silent." He moved his hand, then looked back into her face. "Does praise make you uncomfortable?"

She sighed, in both relief and disappointment.

"Such an interesting woman," He murmured. "Will you tell me of the battle?"

"I'm sure Galmar will fill you in with all the details..."

"As am I. But I want to see how my newest and most promising soldier thinks."

She hesitated. She didn't know what to tell him. Unintentionally, she pouted slightly. He probably wanted to hear about how she was happy, how she killed x number of imperials, how their blood ran like a river down the sidewalk. How they suffered. But this wasn't what she thought about, when she recalled the battle. She was a soldier now, and gods, she loved the fight, but...she hated killing. She tried to leave the enemy alone after she wounded them beyond the point of combat recovery, but any soldiers behind her quickly killed those she left behind. She gave up after a while and took to ending the enemy as mercifully as she could. She had not looked into their eyes as she did so; she could not stand to. She would see their families left behind. Their children. Their wasted potential.

And, as always, she felt uncomfortable and exposed under that steady gaze. His presence drew her in and disarmed her. That look made her want to give him anything and everything. It was...dangerous. He was a _dangerous_ man. And yet, she served him. Trusted him.

"...The truth?" She asked warily.

"Aye." He brought up a finger and traced the pout of her bottom lip, causing her to blush feverently and look away. "...The truth." He sounded amused, and his eyes wrinkled in silent laughter as she averted her gaze.

"Too many men were killed. I wish Balgruuf had surrendered sooner, or sided with us in the first place."

"Do you speak of our men, or the Imperials?"

"Both."

She expected some sort of rebuke for sympathizing with the enemy, but surprisingly, he agreed with her. "We would not be human if we did not grieve for our enemies, as well as our friends. The men I've killed still haunt me to this day, Gaella. But we do what we must for Skyrim, and for all of Tamriel. I must say you are remarkably loyal to the cause for one not born here."

"Skyrim is my home now. I care what happens to it."

"Indeed." He mused. "I don't believe a sword is enough to convey my thanks, however..."

"I'm not that great with a sword, my Jarl, but it would still be an honor to wield it." She didn't usually address him by his title, but she felt...increasingly uncomfortable, and she always escaped into the comfort of formality when that happened.

"Loyal," He murmured, and then, in an instant, things changed.

She was up against the wall, with no memory of moving. In fact, it happened so suddenly she was dazed, and it took a moment to gather her surroundings.

"How loyal, I wonder." He rumbled, his lips against her throat.

Then things became clear. They became clear _very_ quickly.

"Uh...w-what are you doing?" She looked to either side of her and saw that he had pressed his arms to either side of her body. She was trapped, and he was uncomfortably close, and she couldn't help but think this was familiar, even though it hadn't happened before. She was incredibly intimidated by the sneaky smile he wore.

"Rewarding you, Lucinda."

"How do you know my-"

She was cut off by his mouth on hers, and his kiss was rough and passionate, and it brought a blush to her cheeks, and her head was in a fog, and she couldn't speak, only whimper.

"I know a lot of things about you, Lucinda," He murmured, trailing his kisses down her chin, down her throat, down her collarbone, "Maybe things you don't even know about yourself..."

"L..like what?" It was hard to breathe, and the room was hot, too hot. She didn't understand what was happening to her. "Gods..." She pushed against him, trying to get him off, trying to get him away, trying to just take a deep breath and figure out what was going on and...

He grabbed her wrists and pinned them above her head. She trembled, but he was calm and nonchalant. He was able to hold her slender wrists against the wall with one hand and no effort. His hands were huge and powerful. She may be a soldier, but she was no Nord man. And she was certainly no Ulfric Stormcloak. "Such as," He said casually, using his other hand to tilt her chin up. To make her look at him. "What you desire."

If she wasn't frightened before, she certainly was then. "I don't want that," She whimpered, forced to meet his eyes.

"But don't you?" He asked smugly, "If you didn't want this, you would fight me. You would be angry. Screaming insults, just like that day at Helgen..."

She pushed against his hold, now desperate to prove him wrong. She _didn't_ want this. She didn't!

"Ah, yes. _Now_ you are angry. Good. Be angry with me."

He didn't let her wrists go. Instead, he caught her lips again, and pressed his hips into hers.

She groaned into his mouth, closing her eyes. She...didn't want this. She _didn't._ That _didn't_ feel good. It _didn't_ relieve the strange pressure she was feeling slightly.

He took the opportunity of her parted mouth to suck on her bottom lip, running his tongue along it. His beard scraped against her skin in a marvelous way. She didn't know if she liked it or she didn't- but she what she did know was that if this continued, she would have plenty of opportunity to find out. She tried once more to free her hands, but he held her firm. His free hand traveled up her thigh and she wriggled beneath him.

"Yes...fight me, Lucinda. Show me that fire. It makes me want you all the more."

"Not here," She wheezed, "Anyone can walk in. Any...aahh.."

He wasn't paying attention to her protests. He had cupped her breast in his hand and was massaging it. It shouldn't feel as exquisite as it did. It made no sense. Breasts were just...breasts. It should have felt strange. But it didn't. It felt wonderful and started a strange flame within her. "Why..." She felt a deep..._want._ It was increasingly becoming a _need._ "What is this...?"

"Desire, Lucinda. Haven't you ever felt it before?"

"No," She breathed, and finally stopped struggling against him. It was fruitless. She wanted this. She wanted him to keep touching her. She didn't _ever _want him to stop. She felt his mouth- hot and wet- against her bare skin, and she began to grow dizzy. "I..." She was frightened. If she gave into this...then...

"Mm..."

He pulled away from her, and she felt her body call out to be touched again. She immediately covered herself with her hands, as though she were already nude, and looked at him, not knowing what to expect. His face, constantly stoic, gave nothing away.

"I suppose we can't very well continue in here, can we?"

"Good," She insisted, though she didn't really feel that way. "I'll just head back to the camp, then, and wait for-"  
>"No," He said firmly. "That is not what I meant. I have a perfectly good bedroom at the end of those stairs. There is no reason not to make use of it."<p>

"Can't I just take the sword you were offering before?" She whined.

He regarded her steadily, and she felt his gaze press down on her like a thousand weights. She looked away, blushing heavily. Did she have a choice?

"If that is what you wish, you are free to go. But I doubt that what's you truly want."

"How can you claim to know what I want?"

"I felt your body beneath my hands, Lucinda. Young, soft, inexperienced. And _wanting_."

Oh, gods. That voice. To be spoken to in such a way, especially by this man... "Is it your practice to seduce young women that sign up for your army?" She tried to push this 'desire' down, tried to remember that this was a bad idea.

"I can't say it is. I've never seduced one of my soldiers before."

"Then why this? Why _me_?"

"Because I desire you. Do I need any other reason?"

"I'd...prefer a better one," She said bitterly.

"What you want is a complicated explanation, like the ones in your tomes of 'magic.' It is very simple, Lucinda. You desire to complicate it because the simplicity of the truth scares you. If you come with me, you will feel something you've never felt before, and you will enjoy it. If you truly wish to deny me, it is your right, and you may leave. Make your choice."

She didn't know what to do. She looked down at the ground, shivering. This was so much to take in, so much all at once. He said it was simple, but it wasn't really, it...

A thousand- no, a _million_ thoughts ran through her head. She felt like he stood there for years, waiting for her to either run away or come.

"Or," He finally offered, "I can take your choice away from you, and order you to come with me and enjoy yourself." He laughed softly.

She glared at him. "You're an ass. I'm leaving."

He caught her arm on the way out, and the look in his eyes- _is that _really_ what you want?_ - stopped her, and made her part her lips, it stole her breath, it made her world stop.

And that was how she ended up in his bedroom...

She had entered first, as bidden, and looked around the room in wonder. It was simple, true. But there was a beauty in that simpleness; a stark masculinity.

Though she did think the fact that the bed was up on a platform underneath light spilling in from a clerestory was a little much. "Really?" She asked sarcastically, "A clerestory?"

"Why not?"

She almost subconsciously strode forward when she heard his approaching footsteps, as if to avoid him. She covered it up by pretending to look up at the windows. "...It doesn't bother you that you literally sleep in a pool of light? I mean, by the Nine. Your bed is on a freaking _platform._ Could you get any more pompous?"

He chuckled. "It wasn't my idea."

She opened her mouth to speak, but he came up behind her and silenced her most effectively. He grabbed her breasts, pulled her body into his, and held her there. He kissed the gentle curve of her neck and she shivered, trying to pull out of his grasp as she felt that fire - that burning. How many fires must he light within her before he was satisfied? But he held her there and ran his thumbs in circles over her nipples, and she let out a soft gasp as she felt them harden beneath his calloused fingertips and make an appearance even through her robe. She wriggled vainly, grabbed his wrists, tried to pull his hands off of her- why had she come up here? She didn't want this. She wasn't ready.

But it was like trying to fight against a wall. He relented on her breasts, but instead snaked an arm around her waist and held her there as he untied her robes. How did he even know where the laces were? They were hidden beneath folds of cloth. She felt the fear inside of her_, battling _against that fire, telling her to run, filling her with adrenaline. She didn't want this. She didn't.

Oh, but she did.

It was with both trepidation and anticipation that she stood there in nothing but her underclothes. Exposed, deliciously. Exposed, fearfully. She wanted everything and nothing from him all at once. And he turned her around to take in the sight of her, deliberately drawing out the moment as his eyes roamed her body.

"You did, indeed, get a few scars."

"Oh, is that all you wanted to see? Great! I'll just be-"

"Be quiet, Lucinda."

She shut her mouth.

He strode forward, tracing her scars with his fingertips. "These are the marks of a warrior. They are something to be proud of. And yet, beneath the damage, your skin is so pale. So soft. I had always suspected you were pale beneath these robes."

"...and how long have you been picturing me without robes?"

"Since you first called me an ass."

"You're an ass," She was furious at his remark.

"Thank you, but unnecessary. I don't need to imagine you naked any longer. Now...now I can see for myself." He shrugged off his own coat, though he kept the rest of his clothes on for now, and took his time tracing up and down her body with his hands.

It was as though everywhere he touched, he lit on fire- a fire of maddening, confusing "desire" that ate her skin with wicked carress. Her back arched involuntarily- she couldn't breathe- and oh, that wet mouth, the tickle of his beard against her collarbone, her stomach, her thighs. It was too much to take and still stand. He was psychic, he was enveloping, he was unstoppable- he knew, and caught her before she melted into a puddle before him. He laid her upon the bed, and started to disrobe.

She blinked, staring up at those windows. She wondered if _that_ was why the clerestory was there...to expose her completely, to make it impossible to hide. He didn't need that. He could expose her with only a single look of those stormy ocean eyes, so grey, green, and blue all at once.

When he all but ripped off her underclothes, she felt naked not only in body but in soul. She wondered if, in her nudity, he would see past the physicality of her body to the ugly, weighty pain in her soul. She wondered if he would stop after all this upon seeing it, after he'd pushed her desire to the point of no return.

She was his. She was caught. She was exposed. She was completely at his mercy.

And yet...

She could have been mistaken, but she would have sworn he was gentle when he crawled on top of her. She would have sworn that he kissed her so passionately that it suggested this...this was more than sex. She might have thought that he loved it when she explored him back, feeling his rugged scars, the curve of his spine, the expert lines of his muscle. And surely she was wrong, but she heard him warn her before he entered, asking a tenuous question that hung in the air like a tightly drawn thread about to be broken.

"Are you ready?"

"After all this," She whispered, her hands in his hair, and met his eyes, "All this buildup and you bother asking? I don't understand..."

He brought his hand up and cupped her face, drawing his thumb over her lip so tenderly that she sighed, closing her eyes, and relaxed. "I meant it when I said I've never seduced one of my own soldiers before, Lucinda. You are precious to me. You are special. You are...different."

And with that, he slid into her and she felt herself widen to accommodate him- she let out a small cry at the sensation: good and bad, painful and pleasurable all at once. She did not understand. She understood perfectly. This was a world where opposites coexisted at the same time. This was a world where fire consumed her but did not burn her. She gripped his back for support, for strength, for something to anchor her to this world, feeling as though she might float away without him to keep her here.

He thrust into her like his personality: powerful and strong. Even in his gentility he was a large man, and while he was gentle, he did not spare her strength or the firmness of his thrusts. He kissed her passionately and she gripped his hair, whimpering beneath her lips as she kissed him back. Slowly, he increased his speed. Slowly, he increased his pressure. Slowly, he increased his force. And then she was all but screaming beneath him, head thrust back, body completely seized with a divine pleasure, something she had heard rumors of but never experienced, seized with the beauty of this union and the thought that this wasn't wrong, it was perfect, it was exactly as it should be.

It was like a song erupted in her, spreading from the object of his passions all the way through her toes and she sang with it, curling her toes as it took her prisoner and held her there. She had to shut her eyes as she felt her muscles seize- she was powerless, and it was divine, and she wanted more of it. She wanted it to last forever.

But it didn't, and it released her far too soon- any time was far too soon- and she trembled in recovery. She wheezed as she felt him collapse on top of her, but it was okay. His weight, though he was dense with muscle, did not harm her. He must have done it too- orgasmed. She ran her fingers through his hair and breathed heavily, watching how beautiful he was lying there: completely exhausted, coated with sweat. She memorized the wrinkles on his face, the shape of his brow, the exact slope of his nose. She felt buzzed. She felt high, a much _better_ high than drinking too much, and twice as intoxicated.

"You were right," She admitted, tracing his eyelashes with a fingertip- watching his head bob up and down on her breast. "I want you."

"I miss you, Lucinda."

The reply didn't make any sense. She was right there with him. She had become his lover. She had...

And then consciousness stole her from perfection, honesty, and love, and thrust her into black.

She groaned.

"Ah...waking up, finally, are you, lass? You must have been having a great dream. I don't think I've ever seen you smile, much less that much."

She grunted and turned on her stomach, wanting to call the dream back to her. She had never wanted a dream to be so real in her life.

"Hey, now. You've been sleeping for an entire day. How am I supposed to teach you if you sleep all the time?"

"Is it the morning?" She grumbled into the pillow.

"Aye."

"Then fuck off. I hate mornings."

Brynjolf laughed, ruffling her hair, and she growled. "Ah, lass. With dreams like those, I don't blame you. If you can manage more sleep, be my guest. If not, come have breakfast with me at the Bee."

She heard his footsteps as he left her.

_Damn_, she thought, fighting tears. _Damn it. I miss you, too, Ulfric. I miss your smile and your eyes. I miss your light._

And she hated herself for it.


End file.
